Influence
by Winnychan
Summary: Set one week after the new CGI movie and 2 weeks before 'The Talk'. Leonardo must take steps to reassert his command over the team and undo the dysfunction caused in his absence. A Leo and Mike centric dramedy for mature readers only!
1. The Trouble with Tiffany

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**_AUTHOR'S FORWARD:_**

_First I must give Dierdre a spinning-hug and a GREAT BIG HUGE THANK YOU for taking the time to do such thorough beta-reads for this story and the one shortly to follow. She was the most impressive TMNT fanfic writer I'd come upon so far, so I was absolutely stoked that she agreed. _

_MAD PROPS to Eastman and Laird for coming up with such a wicked and wildly original comic book concept as these Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles, and to Mirage for keeping them alive and still brilliant after so many years. It's only thanks to you guys that I now get the opportunity to play around with your complex and brilliantly foiled characters. Yep, that's all I'm doing here, folks. No claiming, no selling... just borrowing them for a little bit of make-believe and harmless dreaming. Please enjoy!_

_Cheers,_

_Whitney Prince_

_P.S. **"Tiffany"** is _not_ an Original Character! Tiffany is a code name for something else entirely. Read carefully and Don will reveal what they're really talking about. :-) _

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_**--- C h a p t e r** **-- O n e ---**_

"Donnie…!"

No response. Michelangelo sometimes found it hard to tell whether his brainiac brother was actively choosing to ignore him or just concentrating hard enough on his work to block out the rest of the world. "Yo, Donnie!" the younger turtle tried again, this time lobbing a grape at him.

This worked. Startled out of his reverie, Donatello brought up a reactive hand, causing the grape to deflect off the olive green heel of his palm. It bounced off and rolled somewhere under the desk. Frowning, he ducked his head down briefly to look for it, but it had hidden itself well amongst the dust bunnies and coiled computer cables. Dragging his gaze back to the doorway, he could see Mikey smirking at him without apology.

"Haha. Dude, if that was a shuriken you'd be SO dead right now."

"And since when do you eat fruits and vegetables of your own volition?" Don groused good-naturedly.

"Since Leo up an' declared we've all been eating nothing but junk for too many months now. He got with April an' they TOTALLY raided the fridge, man… You oughta see it. Nothin' left but a buncha whole-grain, part-of-a-balanced-breakfast hippie shit." He scowled mildly, even as he popped a few more grapes into his mouth.

"Huh. So, ah..." Don was already flicking occasional glances at his computer screen in silent indication that he wanted to plunge back into whatever he'd been doing before the interruption. "Did you need something?" he prompted pointedly, but not unkindly.

"Nothin' major." Michelangelo accepted this as an invitation to enter properly, slinking around to Donnie's side of the desk and leaning against the edge of the cluttered surface. "I just wanted to ask if – whoa!" He'd taken a glance at his brother's screen, which was filled with windows. "Talk about multi-taskin'… You're chatting with HOW many people now?"

"Wha-? No. They're DotNet windows," Donatello corrected. "Programming stuff."

"Huh... Right on." Michelangelo popped another grape into his mouth, before noting wryly, "And here I thought you were getting all studly behind my back."

Don gave an amused snort at that. "Sorry to disappoint. So… your question?"

"Yeah! Uh, I just wanted to ask you if, ah." A sudden bout of uncommon shyness was accompanied by the lowering of his voice as Mike continued reluctantly, "Well. I was just wondering. If you'd… maybe… been hangin' out with Tiffany lately? Or -- ya' know. Even just -- seen her around anywhere?"

THIS served to draw Donnie's full attention much better than a whole handful of flying grapes. He sat up straighter and swiveled in the office chair to face his younger brother head-on, the scaled ridge of one of his brows hitching minutely.

"Mikey…" The purple-masked terrapin hesitated, clearly choosing his next words with care. "I haven't spent any time with – Tiffany. Not since that night you first introduced us. I mean, it was interesting, but sort of – _experimental_ on my part. You know? I haven't really missed her company since then. And the truth is… I don't know if she's someone I'd want to spend time with on such a regular basis."

"Yeah, yeah." Mike shifted his feet, starting to look uncomfortable now. "I hear ya."

"Besides. It's not even _noon_ yet."

Calling upon his uncanny ability to quote pop culture, his brother quipped without missing a beat, "And I said, what about – breakfast at Tiffany's?"

It was one of Don's favorites. He couldn't help returning that familiar grin, even as he grumbled, "I'm serious, Mikey."

His concern earned him an eye-roll and a predictable reproach. "_Too_ serious. Look, just forget I said anything. I'll find her on my own, okay?"

Once again, Donatello found that his cautious and responsible nature was waging a war with his innate desire to be supportive of any brother that came to him for help. It was just too rare an occurrence, these days. Furthermore, the notion that he might be growing apart from the others -- Mike in particular -- had become a very real fear. Lately he found himself loathe to do or say anything that might further estrange him from his brother.

Splinter had called him in for private counsel on several occasions in the past, and had tried to gently explain to him that these fears were crippling his ability to lead the others in Leo's absence. When he stopped to think about it logically, Donnie was fully inclined to agree, and he had vowed many times to correct this flaw. But now, watching Mikey roll his eyes and hearing the hollow note of disappointment in his brother's voice, his resolve fled… just like it always did.

"Hold up, now. So… Like. You can't think of any place you might have left her?" Don prompted eventually, and somewhat awkwardly.

Michelangelo had begun a retreat towards the door, but turned back at this and shook his head with an unhappy wince. "Not really."

"Well…" Donatello scratched at the back of his neck thoughtfully before suggesting, "Whenever I lose something, I usually start by trying to picture it clearly in my head. You know, just the way it was when I last saw it."

Mike brightened at this suggestion and launched into a merry description. "Well, let's see! She's naked, for starters."

"Of course," Donnie agreed wryly.

"And bright pink all over! And she's all pressed against the barrel and smushing her butt on it, and she's got like, her hands clasped up over her head like this." He was happy to demonstrate. "With her shoulders pushed back, an' showin' off her ginormous pair of..."

"Okay, OKAY, Mikey!" Don said with a hasty rush of embarrassment, waving his hands to cut him off. "That's _quite_ clear enough, thanks. Let's just... skip the rest of that and assume we both remember what your stupid bong looks like, okay? Try to focus on what was lying _around_ it."

Michelangelo sighed. "I'm tellin' you, bro, this isn't gonna help. I mean, I already know where it was. It was in my ROOM, right? And now… well, it's not. End of story."

Don gave him a sympathetic flinch and a shrug. "Then I don't know what to tell you, Mikey. I'm really sorry. Maybe you could check with Raphael?"

"Raph?" Mike widened his eyes at that notion. "Raph… and Tiffany?! No way. Raph and the Cap'n, maybe. Raph an' Jimmie Beam, for sure! But," he clutched at his heart dramatically, "not my TIFFANY! Not Pattycake! I won't believe it! I CAN'T believe it! I SHAN'T believe it…"

"It still can't hurt to ask him," Don countered, rubbing his fingers against his temples to ward off the onset of a headache. "Even if it's just to rule it out. Raph's known about the pot for awhile now."

"No kidding! That's why I'm baffled though. I mean, you seriously think Raph took it? He's the one who keeps tellin' me I'm gonna turn into a dirty hippie! Or, like, just the other day? He overhears me talkin' to my guy, trying to get some late night delivery, and he lets into me, all 'Geezus effin Christ, Mikey! Ya damn hypocrite, rah-rah bitch and snarl! Here I am, mournin' the good ole' days when we were out there _bustin'_ drug dealers, and you got 'em on fuckin' speed dial!"

"Well I never said it was _probable_, just possible," Don pointed out, unsmiling and determined to remain serious. It took effort, though. Nobody could do a good Raph impression quite like Mikey.

"Hehe... Gotta give him props for that rant, though. It was one of his better ones."

"Mikey, just stop and think about it for a second," Don persisted doggedly. "If it _wasn't_ him, do you really like the alternatives?"

"Oh." THAT wiped the last vestige of humour off his younger brother's face. "Right. So I… guess I'd better go and… talk to Raph about it," he agreed slowly, lips pulling back like he'd just swallowed something foul.

He was easing the door shut behind him when Donnie suddenly called out, "Hey, Mikey, wait! When you said Leo cleaned out the fridge… do you know if he touched that one big case on the bottom shelf? The stuff I ordered over the internet? I know you've seen me drinking it." His tri-fingered hands gestured nervously as he elaborated, "You know, dark blue bottles? Um – kinda like a mix between a soda and an energy drink?"

The younger brother shook his head gravely, "Dude. I hate to be the one to break it to ya', but I don't think there was ANY soda left by the time he and April got through in there. They did a real number on the fridge, the pantry… they even tossed my secret stash of--"

But he didn't get to finish. Donatello was up in a flash, shoving past a startled Mikey and storming out into the lair's common rooms.

"DAMNIT, LEONARDO!" he hollered at the top of his lungs, stalking towards their eldest brother's room at the end of the hall. "So help me, if you've laid so much as ONE FINGER on my Bawls you owe me FORTY BUCKS!"

Mikey was still hovering just outside Donatello's room, staring wide-eyed, when the door across the hall suddenly cracked open enough for Raphael to poke an unmasked head out and peer blearily towards the ruckus. "Say WHAT, now?" he growled.

"Do not even look at me, dude," Mikey murmured, sidling up closer to Raph. He folded his arms over his chest and shook his head slowly. "I am SO an innocent bystander in these ball-touching shenanigans."

"Heh," Raph grunted. He glanced over and could only remain grumpy and aloof for another moment before Mikey's shit-eating grin of pure amusement got to him. Then the two of them were gripping the wall and holding their sides, howling with laughter.

o O o

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All the commotion eventually intruded on Splinter's morning meditation. He stirred, and his good ear twitched towards the noise. After several long moments spent listening and cherishing all he could hear, his lips pulled back in a subtle smile. 

An unsettling and dysfunctional quiet had permeated their secret tunnels for too long now. At last, he reflected, the lair was starting to sound like home again.

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	2. Don't You Know Me At All

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_**--- C h a p t e r**__** -- T w o ---**_

"Arright, well…" Raph grumbled after a time, scrubbing his scarred green knuckles into the sockets of his eyes. "Call me if Donnie-boy decides to REALLY pound Leo's face in. But since we both know he's gonna puss out at the first sign of confrontation, I'm goin' back to bed."

He turned and went back into his room. Michelangelo caught the door with his fingers before it had shut all the way and slipped in after him.

Raphael's room was as it had always been – sparse and minimalist. There was little more to the place than the large mat laid out for practice, a battered shelf holding his apparel and weapons, and the hammock where he slept. In other words, it was polar opposite to Mikey's own little nook of the lair, which was a whirlwind of color and personal clutter. Looking around this place, Michelangelo could see little of his brother's stamp here. Maybe in the battered wooden door abused with angry gouges, or in the small chinks that years of sparring had left in the rough brickwork of the walls.

About halfway into his room, Raphael froze and then turned slowly to give his younger brother a critical up-and-down look over one shoulder. He turned pointedly towards his hammock for a moment, before turning back to Mikey with a sardonic grimace. "What, did I stutter?"

"Er. No, I just thought-"

Michelangelo didn't have time to say any more than that before Raphael cut him off, making a defensive appeal to the dank ceiling overhead. "Look, just cuz I ain't doing the Nightwatcher thing no more doesn't mean I can change my sleeping habits overnight for you people!"

"Dude, it's fine with me," Michelangelo said hastily. "My hours are kinda all over the place too these days."

"Well, then WHADDYA WANT, already?" Raph demanded, parting his hands wider. He really did look exhausted. "If you're lookin' to spar with somebody, I'm not in the mood."

_There's a first_, Mike thought, but kept a lid on it. The last thing he wanted right now was to pick a fight with Raph, but sometimes that was easier said than done – even for him.

"I just, I – wanted to ask if- I mean- I'm not trying to accuse you of anything! I wouldn't even care! I was just wondering, though, if maybe -" he winced preemptively, "you'd, uh, been in my room lately?" The pitch of his words was actually hopeful, but emotional subtleties were not Raphael's forte.

"Me?" He made a sound in the back of his throat that was equal parts sarcastic cough and laughter. "Look, kid, if I got possessed with a sudden urge to start reading funny books, or… I dunno, came up with a powerful need for some really stale Cheetos…" the superior smirk dropped off his face, and he stabbed a stubby finger at the younger turtle, "I'd still respect yer privacy enough to ask ya first."

"Well, okay. It's just – you know what, bro? Never mind." Mikey found himself stammering, not liking the sly mirth that was lurking in Raphael's gaze now. "It was stupid. Just – forget about it, okay?"

He'd backpedaled towards the door and had his hand on the latch when Raph called out a too-casual addendum, "Oh, but – hey, I just remembered! _Leo_ was lookin' for you last night and I _t__otally_ forget to tell you. That'd be my bad."

Michelangelo froze, staring at him.

Apparently that wasn't enough of a reaction to satisfy Raphael. Ever unable to resist an opportunity to press people's buttons, Raph gave an infuriatingly nonchalant yawn and took a moment to pop his knuckles before adding, "So… yanno. If what yer sayin' is that you _lost_ somethin', then maybe all he wanted was to tell ya that he _foun_--…"

"Oh, no…" The smaller terrapin exploded into sudden panic. "_What the fuck did you tell him, Raph?!_"

It was the wrong thing to say. Mike saw the temper flare in Raphael's eyes; he knew in that instant that the thin leash of his volatile brother's restraint had just snapped.

It seemed that his heart had stopped dead in his chest, and then Raphael was on him before it could remember how to beat. A scar-pocked fist gripped the upper ridge of his plastron, and a loud SLAM seemed to shake the lair to its foundation as Mikey's shell was thrown against Raph's battered wooden door. This maneuver was actually more shocking than painful for Michelangelo, knocking the breath from his lungs and effectively terrifying him.

"DON'T YOU KNOW ME AT ALL?" Raphael raged, inches from his face. "Christ! Have I EVER thrown you under the bus before, Mikey? How DARE you talk like I would snitch you out to _anyone -- _'SPECIALLY that puffed up, mat-kissing, high-horse sonuva-FUCKING bitch!"

"Raph, I-I… I'm sorry!" Michelangelo gasped, cringing and still unable to catch his breath. He'd forgotten all about their blow-up last night. Raph must have lost, or at it didn't seem like he had worked out all of his aggression. "I didn't mean it!"

Raphael backed off then, releasing Mikey with a clear show of effort. He flexed his fingers and snarled warningly, "I ain't never been anything but loyal to a GAWDDAMNED FAULT when it comes to you, an' don't you forget it!"

"I know. I won't. I mean, of course you have." Now the adrenaline rush was ebbing, and his eyes began to sting and shine in the dim light. "Man. I guess I'm just kinda – starting to freak out here."

"Aww, come on, Mikey." Raph grimaced and looked away. "Sheesh. Ain't like he's gonna murder ya." Already his anger was slipping away, in spite of his best efforts to hold onto it. For as long as he could recall, his heart had suffered this rare and mortifying tendency. There were few things in this world that could disarm Raphael like the sight of his youngest brother blinking back tears.

Mike nodded, biting down on the inside of his cheek for a moment. In a small voice, he pleaded, "What am I gonna DO, Raph?"

"Whaddya MEAN what are ya gonna do? Innit obvious?" Raph was calm now, ticking off his brother's options on his fingers. "Yer either gonna go in there, stand up to Leo, and tell him how it's gonna be… or he's gonna play you his song an' dance, and yer gonna step to it." He paused, before noting dryly, "Won't bother to tell ya which one I got my money on."

This caused Michelangelo's brow to crease with confusion. He looked up at Raphael and said, "So... you're saying I should stand up to him? F'real? After all the shit you've been giving me?" His tone was mildly incredulous.

Raph seemed to rethink that for a moment before amending, "Hey, wait. I didn't mean it like that. Yeah, okay, so maybe I get a cheap thrill anytime it's someone 'sides me standin' up to that guy. But – yanno," he scowled, looking uncertain for a moment, before saying, "whatever. I don't care. Do whatever yer gonna do."

"So... you aren't even pissed at me about it anymore?"

"Whoever said I was pissed? Truth is I think it's kinda _hysterical!_ Here's you tryin' to sneak around with this shit when everybody you live with's got the observational skills of a _freakin' ninja_. Comedy gold, right there."

Mike grinned sourly at that. "Yeah, thanks a lot. Glad my situation amuses you."

"Sure thing, buddy." Raph clapped his brother hard on the shoulder, and then proceeded to maneuver him pointedly towards the door. " Anytime! Glad we could have this little heart to heart. Now, if yer done whining, could'ja _gitthefuggoutta my room_ _already_ so I can get some SLEEP?"

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	3. Headtrip

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_**-- C h a p t e r**__** -- T h r e e --**_

Michelangelo's over-active imagination was hard at work. It had put a queasy dread in him that sat like a cold lump of oatmeal in the pit of his stomach. Typically his gait was bouncing and light-footed, but now his heavy feet were dragging against the cool concrete like he was on his way to a funeral.

_Shyeah… my own_, he reflected with uncharacteristic gloom. _Leonardo is going to kill me. I'm fucked. I'm so totally dead. _This was the general litany he kept to, but he knew it wasn't true. No… there would be no gory death-by-katana waiting for him. Leo's methods would not be so quick and painless.

The anxious teen took the longer way around the lair's circular upper landing, anything to stall for time as he made his way towards those narrow metal stairs. By the time he was descending them, he had already formulated his elaborate best guess as to how it would go. Mike could just picture his oldest brother's pale face looming over him. There would be storm clouds of concern and fury and disappointment flashing in his intense amber eyes, for all that he would be perfectly calm.

He would be expected to explain himself. Every word of what he said would be scrutinized, prodded with questions, and requests for elaboration. Leonardo's cool, judicial, I'm-only-trying-to-help-you-and-obey-our-master bullshit would bully him until he'd gathered exactly what, when, where, how frequently, for how long, and with which of his brothers.

He would need clarifications that would force Mike to reiterate details from what he'd already mentioned earlier. He'd want to hear more about this part, or wouldn't be clear on that part, or wondered what he meant when he said this and that, and could Mike go over it again? About three years ago Raphael had confessed his suspicion that all the bizarre attention to detail was really part of some sneaky "truth-testing" trick Leo had been successfully using on them for years.

Michelangelo could still remember shooting the notion down at the time, cracking jokes about Leo using Jedi mind tricks and seizing it as an opportunity to razz Raphael for being such a 'paranoid schitzo'. But the teasing didn't get enough of a rise out of Raph to warrant keeping it up, and before long Donnie's belated inclusion in the conversation helped it devolve into a lengthy back-and-forth banter debating the mechanics and morality of Jedi mind tricks.

The ghost of a smile lit his face briefly, but then it twisted wryly and was gone as his thoughts ran bittersweet. Once upon a time such conversations had taken place on a daily basis. Back then he hadn't known his luck, and it was only now that they had become so rare that he could fully appreciate how much they meant to him.

Giving himself a brisk shake to brush off these melancholy thoughts, Mikey paused and reoriented himself. Then he startled, blinking with the realization that he had almost reached his destination. Leo's room was just ahead.

The weight of his impending doom settled back over Michelangelo in a rush. He should be preparing himself. He wasn't ready! Was there even anything he cared to hide from Leo?

Though he had ridiculed and dismissed Raph's theory all those years ago, the truth was that Mike had never really forgotten it. Forgetting would have certainly been his preference. But throughout every subsequent variation of Leo's most famous Let's-Discuss-How-You-Screwed-Up-and-Why-This-Time-It's-Serious speech that he was made to suffer through after that, he always caught himself remembering… wondering, and very nearly waiting for it.

He'd be sitting there in a puddle of suck, and it wouldn't really matter whether or not he was humbled with guilt or bristling with the injustice. Suddenly, the too-careful phrasing of Leo's next request would make the skin on his arms start to creep. He'd look up then, and start to hear what he thought Raph might have been talking about all that time ago.

Then, without fail, he wouldn't be able to STOP listening for it. He would sometimes spend the whole rest of the dreaded conversation just struggling to keep up with some general idea of what Leo was saying at all. But more often than not he would be too distracted by the running commentary from some manic little voice in his head making wild accusations, "Ohh em gee, Jedi mind tricks! That was so him doing it, for sure! You are clever Leonardo, BUT I AM ON TO YOUR SITH LORD WAYS!"

Jedi Mind Tricks weren't even the worst of it, though. The worst always came after explanations had been delivered, all pertinent details had been gathered, a bunch of his lame-ass excuses were presented, and everything checked out as contradiction free…

Finally, with all that over and done with… they could move on to the actual lecture

Now, it wasn't that Mikey didn't TRY to be a good listener! Assuming he actually DID the damned thing that had gotten him in such trouble, he almost always began with every intention of being respectful. Often he had even taken time beforehand (just as he was doing now), to coach himself on doing exactly that.

If only there weren't so many morals and metaphors… so many multiple examples, proposed scenarios, and worst case situations! He had memorized a bazillion quotes, and loved any chance to reiterate what their Master Splinter's always said, or what _his_ Master Yoshi used to say to _him_, or how the Ancient One explained it to him, or what Usagi's people believe, or the shared opinion of some of ancient Japan's greatest ninjutsu masters, thousands of years ago.

Couldn't Leonardo just try to make it interesting or personal for once? Did everything have to relate to the Virtues of Bushido, the Art of the Ninjutsu, or the Path of a True Warrior? Sometimes, just MAYBE, couldn't screwing up be as simple as, "I was really bored that day" or "it seemed funny at the time?!"

Mikey always felt he could have certainly made it through a shorter lecture on such dry topics, or even endured a ridiculously long one if he would occasionally reference quotes or profound words of wisdom from a comic book, or Chris Rock, or the Daily Show. Hell, he'd settle for Dr. Phil! It might also help if Leo's morals ever came packaged in stories that were even remotely exciting… Didn't anybody ever learn one of Life's Great Lessons from a hella big explosion or a high-speed car chase? But he wasn't brave or confident enough to bring these constructive suggestions to Leo directly, so he would just have to cross his fingers and hope for the best.

_Okay! I'm gonna go in there, and I'm gonna hang on his every damned word. I am NOT going to start daydreaming about Halo 3 or the cheerleader from Heroes. ABOVE ALL, I am not gonna let Leo start to sound all "Wuh-waah-wuh-waaaaaaaaaaah…" like the Charlie Brown Teacher Voice. _

He could still picture Leonardo, angry and disappointed, but fiercely determined to stay calm no matter what. And while chances were good that he would manage, Mike was all too aware of the large role his own listening skills would play…

Three separate times now his big brother had called him out directly, having caught Mikey stammering like a moron and not sure how to answer some simple and straightforward question. More importantly, each time Leo had become very suddenly PISSED at him! No longer was Michelangelo facing a patient and rational interrogator. Gone were the tidbits of Bushido propaganda and stupid little encouragements like "everybody makes that mistake at some point," or "More than anything I'm just grateful that none of you were hurt'. No, suddenly he was all booming shouts and scathing observations, filled with indignant fury. He would launch a full barrage of threats and final warnings. His high-volume rants would make frequent use of words like Maturity and Focus! Discipline and Honor! RESPECT was clearly a personal favorite. And quite frankly he was getting sick and tired of Michelangelo's CLEAR AND UTTER LACK OF THEM!

If it came to this, there would be nothing for Michelangelo to do but cower throughout the tirade, wishing that he could just lie down and die from the embarrassment.

_Oh, man. _It was going to be bad this time. He just knew it. _Leo's gonna go on for hours and hours…_ Having worked himself into such a state of agitation that it was now a borderline panic attack, Michelangelo was giving serious thought to chickening out completely.

He had halted several feet short of the painted screen that served as Leo's bedroom door and frozen up, his round eyes wide and his lip caught between his teeth. _Gotta keep walking, dude, _he told himself. _Let's just get this crap over with!_ But his feet were presenting a very compelling case for the immediate gratification of more stalling. Mikey even tried giving his feet an enthusiastic inner pep-talk involving the swift removal of band-aids, but it was not very motivational. In fact, it ultimately played no part whatsoever in why he did eventually start moving again. Taking slow, creeping steps nearer to Leo's door, Mike was drawn forward by the sound of voices.

_Donatello, _he realized. _He's still in there talking with Leo._

Whenever Leo interjected, his clear and commanding voice always carried out into the hall. Mike still could hear every word, but still wasn't sure what he MEANT, as the words were too few and meaningless out of context. "I figured as much." Then, a bit later. "That's not my first concern." Donnie was speaking again. He had always been 'the quiet one', and there was a gentle quality to his voice and the hesitant way he phrased things that could make the guy sound painfully shy even when he was trying to brag your ears off, or ridiculing all the coolest sci-fi parts in your comic books.

It took him another minute or so just standing there, blatantly eavesdropping on his brothers. But a false cold was creeping over his skin now, as the bits and pieces that did reach him intact began to fill him with one sinking certainty: his brothers were NOT still discussing the cost of replacing that weird blue soda.

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	4. Never Pick Me Again

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_**--- C h a p t e r**__** -- F o u r ---**_

_Nine and a half minutes earlier…_

"DAMNIT, LEONARDO! So help me, if you've laid so much as ONE FINGER on my Bawls you owe me FORTY BUCKS!" Donatello could be heard thundering this protest throughout the lair. By the time he had reached the large painted screen, he saw that it was now ajar. Leonardo had taken up a casual lean against the delicate frame of the door, waiting.

"Come on in, Donnie," he offered with a friendly and infuriating show of calm. Then he turned and retreated back into his own room, leaving the screen open for his brother to follow.

Don slipped in after Leo, his temper still running hot and his body held taut with caution. His brow furrowed as he watched Leo glide off to the back of his room with all of his characteristic grace. "We need to _talk, _please," Donatello growled."What are you—?"

Kneeling now, Leonardo was ignoring him to rummage through a ratty knapsack. But at the snap in his brother's tone, he paused and looked back over one shoulder at Donatello with a flash of concern. Then he spoke in a tone that was still completely amicable, "Forty dollars, you said? I'll have it for you in just a moment." He smiled then, even taking a stab at disarming his brother with humor by quipping, "Though I've got to tell you, Donnie. They're a fine pair, and you just might be selling yourself short."

"Har-har," Don murmured, folding his arms and looking away. Apparently he was not amused.

It was Leo's turn to wrinkle his brow as he turned his attention back to the knapsack, counting out the rest of what he figured he owed Don. It bothered him, though, these little flare-ups of resentment he'd been sensing from his second-in-command. Always over the pettiest things, too… Don's soda was just the latest example. Leo stared at the small stack of colorful bills sadly. _When are we going to talk about what's REALLY bothering you? _

Rising back to his feet, Leonardo turned and caught Donatello staring across the room. He approached and had to clear his throat before Don seemed to startle awake and accept the money that was being offered him.

"These are _pesos_," Don realized with a frown, flipping through the bills.

"Yeah," Leo agreed. "Sorry about that. They're all I've got right now. I gave you a bit more than forty US dollars' worth, just for your hassle, but—" He trailed off with a helpless shrug. "If it's not good enough, you'll have to wait until I can get with April. She was going to help me exchange it, but I told her it wasn't pressing."

"Whatever, then. I guess it's fine," Don sighed. His gaze started to drift back towards the meditation mat, and then came back to Leo's face with a jolt.

Leonardo's smile faded. He didn't need to follow Don's gaze to guess that he'd been eyeing the pink plastic figure set in front of Leo's mediation mat. But now he did look, just to let Don know he'd noticed.

"Err. Souvenir from your trip…?"

This earned Don a look of scrutiny. "Of the four of us, you've always been the worst liar," the older brother reminded him with a note of disappointment in his voice. "You should keep that in mind if we're going to have this conversation."

"Right." Don scowled and turned as if to leave, "Then, let's not have it."

"You're the one who said we needed to talk," Leo reminded him, reaching out to take Donatello by the arm. "So, by all means, let's talk. I take it you _knew_ about this…?" His voice went slightly incredulous.

"Leo…" The smaller turtle tried to pull away, but his brother's grip was commanding. "This isn't fair, putting me in this position!" he pleaded. "Things are already bad enough between us. Please don't make it worse!"

"Bad enough… between you and Mikey?"

"Between me and _everybody," _the distraught terrapin stressed the last word through bared teeth. "I couldn't control them! With Mikey, it feels like being in charge of him has made us grow so far apart. It just – _kills_ me, Leo. And Raph… I swear to you, there've been times I really thought I hated him."

Leonardo's eyes widened. Raphael and Don had never clashed much before. "Sit," he commanded gently, indicating the practice mat with a glance. He moved to the door and closed the painted screen to give them more privacy while Don obeyed. After taking a seat he continued hesitantly.

"Everything I thought we should do, he wanted to do the opposite! Every order I gave, he would fight it. There was just no talking sense to him. He – he always had to make it physical! You have no idea, Leo. He would say the cruelest things to me, for no logical reason at all!"

The eldest's lips twisted with irony. "You're right, Don," he reminded his brother quietly. "I have no idea what that feels like."

The two fell into awkward silence.

Finally, "Do you hate me too, then?"

"Sometimes I thought I might… especially for not writing to us anymore. There were times I needed your guidance so badly. But… no." Don sat on his heels, hugging his arms close to his plastron and huddling in on himself. "No, of course not, Leo. I could never hate you. More than anything, I was just scared you might not come back." He shook his head and brought his hands up to his face, suddenly frustrated by his own show of emotion. "Rrrh..! I told myself I wouldn't even bring up any of this! None of it – none of it MATTERS, really. I just-" he turned and gave Leonardo a look that made him seem briefly younger as he pleaded softly, "I just need you to _stay_."

"I'm going to stay," Leonardo promised, but not without a sad pang gripping his heart. His glimpse of freedom had been sweet, after all.

"Never pick me again. Promise me, Leo. I can't do it again. Raphael would have done better. I swear to you, I've never felt so meddlesome, and ineffectual, and… and STUPID before."

"You're a _genius, _Donnie," Leonardo assured him with a sympathetic flinch. But he knew what he needed to say. Even though it killed him to say it, to trap himself in the dreaded role forever, he promised, "Never again, okay?"

Donatello let out a shuddering breath and nodded.

Leonardo took a chance, slipping in closer and putting his hands on his brother's shoulders. He gently touched his forehead to Don's, and said very quietly, "I'm sorry."

Don sniffed and nodded again, closing his eyes.

"Let me take this burden." Leonardo pulled away enough to look at Donatello earnestly, his hands still gripping his brother's shoulders. Don's eyes opened and met his. "I want to fix _all_ of this, okay? But I need the relevant data first. How can I fix it when I don't even know all the variables…?" He was trying hard to speak Don's language, and he could see that it was working. "Please," the older terrapin continued, "just let me take everything you've been dealing with and I will make it mine. It should have been mine. _Please_, Donnie..."

"The thing, it… belongs to Mikey," Don whispered, after a long pause.

Leonardo felt a knot of tension in his shoulders start to unwind. Donatello was back in his confidence. It was an important step. Releasing his brother, he nodded encouragingly. "I figured as much. When did it start?"

"It's been going on for about," he paused, frowning at the ground as if thinking back, "Six – no, seven months now?"

"That long?"

Don shrugged weakly. "Yeah, at least." He chewed on his lower lip worriedly for a moment before confessing, "And it hasn't quite become daily, I don't think, but – you should know that recently it's been getting close to that. Even Raph is taking notice. Also? The stuff is expensive!"

"That's not my first concern."

"Well, as sole breadwinner it was certainly one of mine. It was part of the reason I helped him go out and get a job of his own, but ultimately – I think I just enabled him with a means to buy even more of the damned stuff."

"Don… there are bigger priorities than the _cost, _honestly."

"What are your priorities then?"

"Well, first off – what exactly does it DO?"

"What do you mean?" Don blinked.

"At the risk of sounding clueless when I just agreed to take the problem away from you, uh – yeah. There's just no way around it. I'm working blind here, Donnie. I probably have less knowledge than any of you about this kind of thing. I mean… I've never even _considered_ it."

Donatello couldn't help smiling a little at that. Of course Leo never would have. "Well, to be honest? Mikey stoned is kind of like… Mikey times ten. MORE giggle-prone, LESS likely to keep up with whatever you're telling him, MORE likely to chase shiny objects out into the street. And let's just hope you don't have any junk food in the house that you actually wanted to keep for yourself. 'Cause yeah, it'll be gone before the night is through. "

"Oh, shell," Leonardo winced.

"Leo…" Donatello was smothering a grin. "When we turned eighteen, Splinter made this speech. We're still expected to mind his rules during training and lessons, but for the rest of the time he considers us old enough to choose our own words." He scratched the back of his neck, grinning. "We thought you'd just sort of catch on, but – heh, haven't you realized yet that you're the only one still making that stupid substitution? Everyone's been sort of laughing at you behind your back for still saying it. I mean,I'm not going to lie. I'm right there with them. We're coming up on _nineteen_ soon. Don't you think maybe it's time to—?"

"I don't care what you guys think." Leo returned Don's grin, unruffled. "Go ahead, laugh it up. Splinter's disapproval of swearing didn't go away just because we got a year older. Personally, I think he just wanted one less reason to gripe at Raphael."

Donatello just shook his head slowly, marveling at this news. "I thought for sure you just didn't realize the ban had been lifted…"

"I know that none of you are likely to understand it, but – that's just who I am. I want to live up to Splinter's expectations. I want to do what feels right to me. And if I decided to change who I am and what I believe just because you guys might laugh… Don, how could you ever respect me for that?"

The purple-masked turtle was speechless for a moment. "You're right. Of course you're right." He finally lifted his gaze back to Leo's and quirked an amused look at him. "Not necessarily reverting back to it MYSELF mind you, but… you keep on saying "shell", Leo. And I'll just go ahead and love you for it."

"Thanks," Leo grinned. "Now can we get back on the topic of Mikey and his marijuana pipe here?"

"Bong, Leo. It's called a bong. If you call it a 'marijuana pipe' he's gonna laugh his head off."

"Okay, bong then. Good to know. See, I may be clueless, but at least I'm a fast learner."

Don had a chuckle at this, but sobered when he went on to confess, "Truth is, I started out pretty clueless myself, Leo. But you know me… When I found out he was messing around with this stuff, I dove _right_ into researching it. Five months later I feel like I'm a veritable expert as far as textbook knowledge goes, and even ran one, uh – inconclusive field study." Leonardo canted his head wryly at this, and Donnie gave a sheepish shrug. "But after all that… I still had no idea what to actually SAY to him. I completely dropped the ball,Leo, and for that I'm truly sorry."

"It's all right, Don. I promise you, somehow I AM going to resolve this. Tell me where you think he gets—"

An irate voice shouted suddenly from the hall just outside. **"THANKS A LOT, DONNIE! WAY TO THROW ME UNDER THE **_**FUCKING BUS**_**, MAN!" **

"Ohmigod." Donnie's eyes widened, and he looked up at their fearless leader with sudden panic. Leonardo leapt swiftly to his feet and ran to the door, yanking it open and peering out after the bitter words.

But he only got a glimpse of Mikey snagging a duffle bag of street clothes from a hook on his way out the upper portal before he disappeared from sight. Then the sound of his footfalls could still be heard slapping the concrete noisily, taking off at full tilt down a tunnel that would lead him back up to the surface.

Both older brothers tore after Mike initially. Don seemed to realize it was a futile effort right away and stumbled to a halt in the middle of the lower common room.

Leonardo trailed him as far as the outer-ring of their security system before accepting that he was rapidly losing ground on Michelangelo. The sad truth was that, in spite of all his recent and vigorous conditioning in the jungle, he still had no hope of catching his out of shape, pot-smoking little brother running at full speed. The kid was just that fast.

When he slipped back into the lair from the upper portal, Leonardo made a beeline for Raphael's room. He pounded on the door. Raph's answer was less than cheery. "Whaddya want?" he barked.

Leonardo took this as permission to enter. Having expected to find his brother in bed at this civilized hour, he was taken aback at the sight of the hothead shrugging on the last of his Nightwatcher suit. "Wh— Raph!" he piped, caught off-guard by this sight. "What are you doing?"

"Well, gee! I dunno!" Raphael stalked up to Leo and brought his face aggressively close. Looking him dead in the eye, dripping sarcasm, "What would YOU rather have me doin' right now, Fearless?"

Leonardo didn't flinch. But he did freeze, looking Raphael in the eye long and hard as understanding dawned. In a lower, humbler, but entirely calm voice he said, "Find him, Raph. Bring him back to us. Please."

"_WHAT A GREAT IDEA!" _Raphael boomed, shoving past Leonardo roughly – but with the ghost of a grin lurking about the corners of his lips. "Why the FUCK didn't I think of that?"

"But, why do you need the suit?" Leonardo couldn't help asking. He hated the sight of the damn thing.

"Intimidation factor_,"_ Raphael explained shortly, without glancing back. He was barreling towards the ladder leading to the upper portal landing, but a wet, strangled sound drew his gaze down to the common area. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Donnie…?"

Donatello was on the floor with his knees tucked under him, head bowed and trying to muffle his tears with the palm of his hand.

"_I'll_ deal with Donnie," Leonardo asserted, coming up behind Raphael and looking over the banister. Privately, though, he was grateful not to be alone in this task. Even as he spoke, Splinter darted across the room and was quickest to reach the huddled turtle's side. "_You_ go find Mikey." Raphael tore his gaze away from the sight of his distraught brother, looking back to Leonardo with a start. "When I decided to turn back, he was still gunning down the main canal that runs under 9th Avenue. He's moving fast and may have hit the surface by now, but on your bike you should be able to catch him. Go!"

Ticking off a mock-salute from the corner of his brow, Raphael rumbled, "Roger that," and took off to hunt down Michelangelo.

o O o

* * *


	5. Gearing Up

**_AUTHOR'S RAMBLINGS:_**

_Well, I took Rainbeauchaser's advice and removed the song lyrics, though it did deeply pain me. I've had most of the opening lyrics plotted out for the remaining chapters in Influence, and a lot of thought was put into each of them. If anyone's curious to see what songs have been assigned to which chapters, I'm gonna continue to display them over in my author forum on 'Stealthy Stories' forum -- which has fast become my favorite hangout online, I should add. Sandbox niche communities FTW!_

_I am working on Influence and The Talk at the same time, with the loose plan to alternate chapters. While Influence does come first, the two are definitely within the same AU and little things are meant to carry over between the two tales and one should never be an outright spoiler for the other. Or it might, but done purposefully on my part. Sometimes there will be lag time because I am indulging my bad habit of tooling around with future chapters instead of cranking out current ones. (hangs head)_

_Pending a thumbs up from Dierdre, my wonderful beta reader, I'm gonna try an experimental new format for chapter six of Influence. That doesn't mean all the chapters will be converted to this format; if it's successful and doesn't confuse the heck out of people, I'll probably just do it every now and then. _

_THANK YOU, WONDERFUL REVIEWERS! You totally keep me psyched up and on task for cranking out these chapters, and I appreciate the heck out of everyone who takes a moment to give me their response. _

_Much luv,_

_Whitney_

o O o

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o O o

_**--- C h a p t e r**__** -- F i v e ---**_

Michelangelo's outrage was quick to dissolve into terror when it fully sank in that it was LEONARDO who was still chasing him. In his head, it went something like: _ohgodohgod LEO'S GONNA GIT ME AAAHHH!!_

At first this pure panic was his only motivator, but gradually – as the sounds of Leonardo's pursuit came from further and further behind him – it was pride. _You __still__ can't catch me! NONE of you can! _It was a tool, a means to keep his feet pounding the concrete long past the point where he felt they might fall off.

_You're still the fastest, the BATTLE NEXUS CHAMPION! Go Mikey go Mikey GO! _

Finally, he had to stop. And by stop, that is, he had to stagger and plaster his hands against the curved tunnel wall to keep from falling when his legs finally gave out. He sank to his knees in a fit of coughing and gasping. His lungs hurt, every breath cutting like a knife through his chest. _Okay,_ he thought, panting and trying to get steady. S_o… maybe you overdid it. _

Mike struggled to quiet his ragged breathing and listen to the sounds of the sewer around him. Aside from the slow trickle of moving water, the hush of cars above, and countless tiny drips falling in through grates from a recent rainstorm… nothing. Pure, sweet silence. A wash of relief went through him. He was no longer being followed.

_Probably shouldn't stick around here, though. Leo might just be calling for reinforcements. _Pulling the duffle bag off his shoulder, he unzipped it and rummaged around for his street clothes, his scowl returning. _Fucking Donnie. No __way__ I'm going back home tonight. If I saw him right now, I'd probably have to deck him. So… whatever. Better__ gear up. _

First out were his baggy, black cargo pants. They were made of a lightweight, parachute-like material, covered in pockets, with two black ribbons hanging down and reflective silver stripes running down the side of either leg. His waist had no natural inward taper, of course, so he had to fasten the pants up by tying the front drawstrings to his leather waistband, threading them through the loopholes that normally housed his 'chucks. The sneakers he strapped on next. These had taken some ingenuity on his part: several sizes too large, the soles had been entirely cut out and the shoes were kept snugly in place with the help of some elastic-laced straps. They ran across the arch of his foot and fastened at either side of each shoe's base with a staple gun. The staples were punched outward from the inside this time, as his first attempt to make himself sneakers proved rather painful.

His favorite part of the outfit was a comfy, XXL dark grey hoodie with a black tribal design on the back that looked a bit like stylized, demonic wings. It had a large, shared pocket in the front that served the dual purpose of hiding his hands and providing easy access to his 'chucks. His orange mask was tugged off and replaced with a black knit beanie, tugged down low on his brow. At the bottom of the duffle bag was a full ski mask that he could have put on instead, but he rarely chose to wear it unless he thought he might undergo close scrutiny. It made his disguise a lot more foolproof, but the damn thing was itchy and knew he could get away with casual glances just by keeping the huge hood of his sweatshirt tugged all the way forward and canting his head down, throwing his whole face into shadow.

_Beats the hell out of some ugly trench coat_, he thought to himself with a smirk.

Sunlight spilled down from a grate above and lit up a puddle, and he stood over it for a moment to study his own reflection with approval. For him, those trench coat and fedora days were long gone. Sure, this getup wasn't as efficient to get on and off. But he felt _hardcore_ in this gear, not to mention his crew also seemed to appreciate the new look.

In the process of sliding his nunchuks into his sweatshirt's front pocket, however, Mike encountered a surprise. Slowly, he closed one hand around the discovery and withdrew it to reveal… his last purchase. Perhaps literally.

Cocking his arm back, he readied to throw it into the water running through the channel below him and be rid of the evidence. Maybe be rid of it once and for all. He wasn't sure, but he was leaning that way.

He just… wasn't completely sure.

Michelangelo lowered his arm again and opened his palm to give the ounce a wistful frown. The clump of greenish, hard-packed buds and dried leaves were wadded into one corner of a plastic sandwich baggie and repeatedly twisted to seal most of the air out. It wasn't airtight, though, so he could smell it: pungent and fresh. The stuff looked to be sticky and seedless, and he bounced it gently in his palm once to note its weight; he hadn't noticed the other night, but now he suspected that it had been padded. Definitely more than an ounce. Flip had been kind to him.

His next thought was the deciding factor: _This was more than half my paycheck!_

Not just any paycheck. His _final _paycheck. So he couldn't just throw it out.

Resignedly, he shoved the drugs back into his front pocket, zipped the duffle bag closed, then pulled his phone out of one of its side-pockets. Snapping it open, he hauled the satchel up onto one shoulder with one hand while his left worked the buttons of the shell cell. In spite of what Raph had said, he didn't _need_ speed dial. Mike juggled these tasks like it was effortless, and while he was taking it for granted at just this moment, Michelangelo regularly paused to reflect on just how wicked it was to have been born ambidextrous.

Now dressed, cell pressed to one cheek and ringing in his ear, he started shuffling down the sewer tunnel again. His eyes skimmed the walls as he walked, keeping an eye out for some rungs that would take him through a manhole and up to street level.

Damn. He was getting Flip's voice mail.

"Hey. You've reached Flip's phone, and I guess I ain't home. Or I ain't got shit for you. Or maybe I just don't feel like talkin' to your punk ass, sucka! Hah. Right. So there's this beep comin' up, and – you know the drill. Peace, bitches! … _beeeeeep!_"

"S'up, this is Mike. Flip, man, if it's possible – like, at all? Then I gotta make a return. I'll take half back. I don't even care. Just, call me, 'kay? Cause, the thing is, I'm getting some heat here and I gotta get rid of it. I mean – not _that_ kinda heat! Just… okay. It's my big brother. Like, that one who came back from the jungle. Um, heh. Have a field day with that, since I know you will. But – really he just means the world to me, like… you don't even know. So. Uh – yeah, dude. That's what's goin' on. Call me."

Mike sighed and flipped the phone shut, shoving it into one of the pockets of his cargo pants. So much for crashing at Flip and Gelly's place tonight.

Spotting a set of rungs up ahead, Michelangelo quickened his pace and clambered up the ladder. He hefted up the manhole cover as noiselessly as he could manage and peered around the alleyway, checking to make sure that it wasn't occupied. Satisfied, he scrambled up onto the street and replaced the manhole cover quietly. Then he hunched his shoulders down and moved out into the daylight without sparing a backward glance.

If he had, he might have seen the manhole cover shift again well after he'd replaced it. His cautious pursuer emerged only once Mike was fully out of sight. Leaping up onto a half-lowered fire escape that lead from the alley up to the rooftops above, Raphael began to trail his brother like a silent shadow.

* * *

They couldn't get Don to speak. Splinter persisted, offering wisdom and encouragement in a soft and steady voice. Leonardo stood nearby, glad to let his sensei take the lead. He was wracked with guilt for having been 'caught' by Mike. _Just when Donnie was finally starting to open back up to me! I should have checked, should have made certain we were truly alone. I just got so excited that he was finally talking to me that I didn't think! I could have prevented this. I can't __believe__ I let this happen._

Splinter had quieted now, and apparently waited in hope that Don was finally going to say something.

His brother looked back at the two of them like an animal caught in a trap, and seemed to be making a conscious but not wholly successful effort to slow his own rapid breathing. Splinter was leveling a worried look at him, and shot a glance to Leonardo. Leo took this for the silent indication that it was, stepping forward and wracking his brain for something encouraging to say.

Instead, all that came out was, "Donnie, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

Donatello sniffled and twisted to look at him, his brow still wrinkled with emotion.

Leo pressed on, rallying himself to take charge. His voice grew firmer. "I'll be the one to talk to Mike, okay, Don? Please don't worry. You know he can't hold a grudge. And I promise you, I'll figure out what to say to calm him down. If he's got to be mad at someone for a while, I'll make sure it's me. I'm sorry, I still can't believe I let this—"

"Don't," Donnie creaked, the first words he'd uttered since they'd let Mike get away. Squinting a little, he clarified hoarsely, "I mean, don't blame yourself. And don't… think you need to do any of that. I just… I'm sure… Mike and I will…"

He was still struggling to keep it together, and he was failing. Leonardo did his best not to look like he was staring, but he was. _Who are you, and what have you done with Donnie?_ Leo shot a glance to his sensei, but did not catch the old rat's gaze. Looking at his second eldest, Splinter's wise brown eyes were both sad and knowing.

"I'm sorry," Donatello whimpered, screwing his eyes shut and cupping his beak with both hands. "C-can I – just – be alone, please? Just until I get my emotions under control, I – please, I just— _can't_…" Splinter dipped his nose in assent, and Don wasted no time bolting for his room, mumbling, "I- I'm sorry, guys... Just. For a few…"

Then his door had closed and there was only silence.

Leonardo continued to stare after his brother, stunned. "I can't believe he was. He just. He's always so _reserved_, he never…" Trailing off, he turned and looked to Splinter for answers. "Not in front of us!"

"It is… less uncommon, of late," was all the old rat could quietly say.

Leonardo recoiled at that, flinching. Then several long strides brought him right up to his brother's closed and bolted door. "DONNIE!" he called. "Please let me in! I want to help!"

Splinter came up beside him and bobbed his nose to indicate a small red LED glowing in the panel to the right of Donatello's heavy metal door. There was a print-out sign fixed beneath it. Typed in Arial Black sixteen point font, the sign read:

--------------------------------------------------  
**SOUND-PROOFING ACTIVE WHEN LIT**  
--------------------------------------------------

The rat clasped a furred paw over his son's shoulder as it sagged in defeat.

o O o


	6. Couldn't Be Helped

o O o

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o O o

_**--- C h a p t e r** **-- S i x ---**_

They would not. Shut. Up.

"Chez, I'm tellin' you, man – it's serious now. I mean, he's about to make it serious. Shoulda heard the words comin' outta that boy's mouth. He is not even cool with it. And shit's about to get _crazy_."

"Get d'fuck out. Firstly, ee' ain't got da balls. Secondly, you da only crazy I'm really seein' here, f'real, bouncin' off d'walls over dat toy's lame-ass drama."

"You weren't there, man. You didn't see his _face_. Next time he sees that guy, it's gonna be on like Donkey Kong… Like, BLAM!"

Where did they even come up with these lines? Donkey Kong? Did people still even play that game?

"So?" Sanchez threw his cards down on the folding table, appealing to the blonde kid with upturned palms. "Wha'choo even care for, T? You gonna have his back when all dis 'crazyness' happen?"

"Well, yeah!" When he saw the dubious glower he was getting from Chez, he dropped his eyes to rethink the situation. Or, maybe just to 'think' the situation. It wasn't so much that Ton-Ton didn't _have_ a brain; he just had a tendency not to remember that he had one until others reminded him to use it. "I mean… ah, hell, I don't know. Why? You don't think I should?"

"Ee ain't one of us. And 'ee ain't done you no favors."

"Smokes me up all the time."

"Dassa fool reason to stick yo neck out," Sanchez admonished with an amused snort. "Yo style is sick, T. Why don'choo focus on your art. Let dat loco run around mouthin' off to bangers and prolly get himself killed. If he even gonna', which I serious doubt."

"Guess that cat is kinda crazy…"

"F'real. Kid need, like, serious therapy." Chez gave a thoughtful pause before adding, "And balls. Cause 'ee doan got 'em."

"Yeah, uh. You mentioned."

"M'just sayin'. Like, none whatsoever."

"O-kaaay…" Ton-Ton laughed. "Dude, that's like _way_ too much interest in his package and it's officially freakin' me out."

"Like one dem fuckeeng Ken dolls, right?" Chez grinned, undaunted, "And you da fool who gots ta have his back."

They'd been talking for hours. Literally. HOURS. Non-fucking stop.

Wrapping the pillow around his face and pushing it down over both ears did well to block them out. Not silence, but it did reduce the inane, never-ending flow of their dialog to a blissfully unintelligible murmur. But he couldn't keep it up. The pillow was just too disgusting… limp and drenched with the vile, slimy sweat that was pouring off him in buckets.

He was wearing nothing but his boxers by this point, the rest of his clothes now discarded in a sopping pile near the foot of his mattress. He'd held out as long as he could, self-conscious and loathe to reveal the full extent of his body's new frailty: the skeletal definition that had come to his collarbones and ribcage, or the way his shoulder blades jutted from his back like the wings of a newborn bird. His arms and legs had stubbornly retained much of their wiry muscle from skating and break-dancing, but he knew that he no longer looked healthy. The baggy clothes they all chose to wear had helped him to hide it for so many months, but now the jig was up.

At least so far no one had felt it necessary to lecture him, or even say one word about it. The only one to betray his surprise or concern was Ton-Ton, who froze when the shirt came off and began giving him a rather blatant, wide-eyed stare. It took Zen scooting down in his chair and kicking his ankle from under the table for him to snap out of it.

He wondered what was keeping Zentaro. And Pixi, where was she?

His nose wouldn't stop running, but he wouldn't let himself rub at it or he'd make it raw before this nightmare was over. He restlessly turned over onto his side to stare at the blank plaster wall, wishing he could just somehow sleep through the misery. _How do they expect me to rest if they don't ever shut up?_

Tuning them out didn't work. There was nothing else to focus on. And he desperately needed something. Something to keep him from spiraling into his own head. His mind was a dark and fearful place right now, and a quick route to madness. But then, did it really matter? He would go crazy whether he liked it or not. It couldn't be helped.

No. Not yet. It was too early to fall apart. He just needed something else to focus on. Something. _Anything._

He tried singing '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall' in the privacy of his own head, but only made it as far as the ninety-sixth bottle before growing hopelessly bored with the song. Then he tried switching to 'Henry the 8th', but got confused shortly after the part that went "wouldn't have a Willy nor a Sam, not-a-Sam!" _Did it just repeat itself after that, or – wait, weren't there verses or something? Like talking about his different wives? _

He couldn't remember. Didn't give a fuck.

_New song. Ok._

**Conjunction junction, what's your funnnction? Hookin' up words and phrases!**

No.

**(Pissin' the niiiight awaaay… Pissin' the niiiight awaaay...!) I get knocked down – but I get up again! You ain't ever gonna keep me down! I get knocked down – **

Way too cheerful.

**All I can say is that my life is pretty plain. I like watching the puddles gather rain…**

Still no dice. That one sometimes made him teary even when he wasn't already lying there in pain and abject misery. He twisted just enough to sneak a peek at his jailors from over one shoulder. Do I really want to start bawling in front of these two jokers?

"…So then Darcy's like, 'Son, you got a lot of goddamn nerve sayin' that to me. You used that same line on my cousin!' And we were all, ha-ha…! And he got real red. Cuz I mean, dude. Have you seen Darcy's cousin?"

Fucking Christ.

There was only one solution. To shut them up, he would have to kill them. Just murder them both. With his bare fucking hands. It couldn't be helped. And he could so take them. He would, too. Just… as soon as he was sure he could stand up without vomiting.

He needed to calm down. When Pixi got here, things would be better. He weakly pushed himself up and crawled over to his clothes, going through the pockets of his jeans.

Empty, empty, empty… _Where the fuck is my lighter? _ His jeans had far too many pockets.

He didn't smoke – cigarettes, anyway – but whenever he got nervous, angry, or bored, he played with his lighter. It was an older Zippo that had belonged to his favorite foster father, with none of those tacky decorations like the ones you saw in stores these days on those spinning racks. His lighter was silver-plated and smooth, with a deceptive weight to it that felt comforting in his palm. His obsession with this particular lighter had given him his current namesake.

Sanchez had noticed him feverishly rifling through his clothes by this point, and turned to watch him warily. "Wha'choo looking for, Pyro? Ain't nothing for you in 'dere."

"Fuck didja do with my lighter?" he growled at them distractedly, without glancing up. His voice sounded strange to his ears, rough as sandpaper and choked with the mucous that had been pouring relentlessly down the back of his throat for the past few hours. He was putting a lot of concentration into not letting his hands shake, but searching his clothes was still clumsy work. The tremor, and the lack of control it seemed to represent, infuriated him.

"Dude, you threw it," Ton-Ton supplied helpfully – but not helpful enough to actually get up off his ass and fetch the thing. "Remember?"

_Oh, yeah. Well, shit. _Dark spots of embarrassment appeared on his cheeks. He refused to look at them. There it was, over by the door. Ok. That was pretty far away. He flumped back down in defeat.

God, he hoped she got here soon. Pixi had said she'd bring something to help take the edge off his suffering. Her brother worked at a pharmacy, she explained, and maybe he knew a way to nab some painkillers or something… He remembered telling her not to worry about it if her brother thought it was going to be too much of a risk. He hadn't wanted to land her brother in any sort of trouble.

She'd told him she'd get him something, and… he'd given her an out. _Why? Why the fuck did I say that?_ He was haunted by the sick suspicion that she would show up empty-handed now, just because of what he'd said.

Already his thoughts were turning evil, and he hated the feeling. Hated the _knowing, _the recognition of his wickedness, and every new burden of guilt that came with it. He already had more than enough reasons to hate himself.

_If Pixi can't bring anything—_ a shudder went through him, but he completed the awful thought –_then I hope she doesn't show at all. _ If she arrived here only to disappoint him, Pyro was afraid he might start to hate her as much as he hated Chez and Ton-Ton right now. And he didn't want to hate Pixi. He adored her. The truth was that he adored all of them.

He was just so fucking sick.

Okay, if he was going to survive this, then he needed his damned lighter. His body seemed heavier than normal as he dragged himself unsteadily to his feet. Ton-Ton and Chez were watching him again; apparently him taking a wobbly stroll across the room was more amusing than whatever card game they were playing. He paused and looked around blearily, as if nausea was going to pounce out at him from behind one of the battered pieces of furniture.

He was about halfway to his goal when they heard a soft, even staccato against the door. It was nothing like Pixi's exuberant knock, and he knew before the door opened that Zen had returned.

Zen was carrying some parcels and had shifted them to one hand briefly in order to let himself in. Kicking the door gently to close it behind him, he took a few steps in, but paused when he saw Pyro standing in the middle of the room. He was shiny with sweat by now, standing with his feet spaced wide for extra balance. He eyed Zen defiantly, as if daring ridicule.

Zen's thin brows drew together, and there was nothing but concern in his expression. "Weh you go, Pyro-san? You should be rest now."

_Then why'd you leave me with these two mutts yapping at each other nonstop? _"Just – don't step on it," he warned, his eyes flashing down to the ground.

Zentaro followed his gaze and quickly spotted the lighter. He shot Sanchez and Ton-Ton an exasperated look, then dropped into a crouch to retrieve it with his free hand. He managed this with effortless grace in spite of all the stuff he was still carrying. Extending the lighter to Pyro, he bobbed his head towards the mattress and gave him a look that silently commanded, '_now go lay down.'_

He went without protest and Zen followed, taking a seat on a dry corner of the mattress and setting his bags down in front of him. "Must try to eat," he explained quietly. "I bring ramen foh you." A take-out container emerged from the bag, and he peeled off the lid before handing it over.

Pyro stared down at the noodles dubiously. It looked fancy. He looked over at Zen, who was rummaging around in the bottom of the bag. "This ain't ramen," he observed. "That brick of noodles shit?"

Zen glanced over at this, his black eyes twinkling with amusement. "No... this not _American_ ramen." He came up with napkins and a plastic soup spoon, which he passed to Pyro. "Please. Eat!"

He obeyed, sticking to spoonfuls of broth at first, before working his way up to bits of vegetable and noodle. It was hard to eat knowing that, inevitably, he would see most of it come back up again. The trash can on the other side of the mattress behind them stood as mute evidence of that.

Meanwhile, Zen had taken some talcum powder from a different bag and set it down without explanation. Pyro didn't know what he planned to do with that, or whether he even wanted to know. Next he pulled out a dried greenish-brown bundle that drew an immediate protest from Sanchez.

"_¡Ni se te ocurra!_ Don'tchoo be lighting dat hippie crap in here!"

Zen blinked at him owlishly, confused by the description, and held it up. "No marijuana," he clarified. "See? Is sage stick."

"I _know_, homes. And what I'm saying is, I'm gonna beat choo down if you light it."

Pyro made no comment except to grunt amusedly between slurps of ramen. No matter what kind of gang banger crew he may have run with back in California, he highly doubted Chez could "beat down" Zentaro. Not even with an AK-47 and a full suit of armor. Zen was former Foot Clan, Japanese division.

Zen still didn't understand, shaking his head. "No. Just _sage_," he explained patiently. "Good foh room…"

"Dude, I'm gonna have to outvote you on this one. It's getting pretty rank in here. And it's my apartment, so – yeah. Go crazy with your sage stick, Z-man."

"Come on! Dat shit give me a freakin' headache."

"Well the smell comin' from _him_ is givin' me a freakin' headache!"

"_Yame!_" Zen glared at this, then took out a second sage bundle. Standing up, he pointed one of them at Ton-Ton. "Come. You help with sage. Then we make tea foh Pyro-san."

"D'wannit," he grumped half-heartedly, already knowing he'd be ignored and forced to drink whatever herbal remedy crap Zen felt necessary for his recovery.

Chez had stalked into the bathroom muttering in Spanish, and the other two were getting ready to clear the bad spirits out of the room or whatever. So no one but Pyro noticed when Ton-Ton's cell phone began to ring. It was on vibrate, buzzing noisily against the card table.

"Ton-Ton, your phone," he murmured, staring at the flashing LEDs. His soup spoon was hanging from his fingers, forgotten halfway to his mouth. _What if it was Pixi? Is she on her way? Is she calling to say she can't come? _

Ton-Ton didn't hear him. They hadn't lit the sage yet, but were over by the window trying to pry it open and get some circulation going so Sanchez wouldn't keep bitching. But it was jammed, and the phone was still ringing, and it might be PIXI, and—!

"TON-TON, YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PHONE IS RINGING!" They both turned to stare at him. _Heh. I guess that _was_ kind of loud. _

"Ok, dude! Lemme just take care of that for you, right? Yeesh." He moved back over to the card table to grab the phone.

Meanwhile Zen came over to give him a look of mild sympathy. "You spill some ramen on yohself."

And so he had. Damn it. He flicked the noodle off his thigh irritably.

"Yeah?" Ton-Ton answered with uncharacteristic rudeness. Pyro couldn't blame him, as he wasn't feeling very chipper today himself. But whatever was being said cheered the kid considerably, bringing a huge grin to his face. "Holy shit! How goes?"

"Who is it?" Pyro demanded impatiently. Ton-Ton ignored him.

Zen picked the noodle up off the floor and deposited it in the trash can. But he didn't go back to the business of prying the window open, lingering to listen in on Ton-Ton's call.

"Yeah, um. There's a few of us over here now. Well it's me, Chez, Zen, and Pyro… Yeah."

Pyro's hopes sank. _Pixi wouldn't need to ask who was here, would she?_ Still, he tried again. "Ton-Ton. Who IS it?"

"Oh, man. That sucks… Yeah, I'm not sure what Flip's up to. I think he might be outta town. But Gelica's definitely still around. You tried calling Flip's home number?"

Sanchez emerged from the bathroom just as Pyro lost it again. "GOD DAMN IT, TON-TON…!"

"Uh, hold that thought." Ton-Ton cupped one hand over the cell phone and held it away from himself to hiss, "Shut up, okay? It's Mike!"

Pyro blinked. _Mike? _

"F'real? Lemme talk to him!"

Ton-Ton scowled and held the phone further away from Sanchez. "No way!"

"Jus' for a second!"

"He called _me._"

"Das ridiculous, man. Why you gotta be such a child?"

"Dude, he's looking for someplace to stay! And you can't help him cuz your dumb ass got evicted." He looked so excited. You could see it all over his face. It was understandable. Mike was the coolest. If there was anybody in A.V.A. who _could_ beat down Zentaro… it was definitely Mike.

He was excited for the same reason Pyro's stomach was now doing somersaults. "You can't help him, either," he said softly.

"What? Why?"

"You can't let him stay here," he pleaded, setting the soup down and curling his arms around his legs. "Don't even let him come over. You know how he feels about – all that stuff. I… I don't want him to think less of me." Zen tried putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away irritably.

"Hey, Mike. Well… yeah, the thing is, we're sort of taking care of Pyro right now. He's sick, he – uh. We think it might be like food poisoning. But he's being a total bitch, and throwing up everywhere. Like, constantly. It's pretty gross."

Pyro sighed and flopped backwards onto the mattress. Well, that wasn't the best answer he could have given, but it would have to do.

"Right. Yeah, I'm real sorry. You know, any other time I'd be totally – yeah, I know. Hey, I think someone here wants to talk to you." Ton-Ton suddenly didn't want to chat anymore, but he handed the phone over to Zen just to make Chez splutter with outrage.

Zentaro blinked in surprise, "Er…." Slowly his expression changed, listening. Then laughed and shook his head. "No! Stop, stop. Mikey-san! Yoh Japanese is terrible."

"You a lil bitch, you know dat?" Chez made a fist, threatening to punch Ton-Ton.

"Well, if yoh brother say that, I agree wih him! You stick to the cowabunga talking. It suit you. Hey, Mikey-san? I'm giving phone to Chez now befoh he smack Ton-Ton, okay? I see you."

Chez scrambled to take the phone, greeting the turtle with cheer. "Heeeeey, Chuks! You still down for da party dis Saturday, right? Yeah, you betta be. I come hunt choo down… hah! Yeah, you right. Dat prolly not a safe way to be meeting 'em, huh? Ok, maybe if you don't show up, I jus' walk around da party wit' my sad face on. Tell everybody s'all your fault, yeah? …Haha! Hey, man. You don't want dat. Iss'a _really_ sad face. "

Pyro made the mistake of looking over at Ton-Ton. His stomach twisted with guilt. The kid looked completely dejected. "Look, T… I'm _sorry_, okay?"

"S'fine." He didn't look fine. He looked like he was sulking.

"Yeah, bring ya board, man! We'll set up da ramps. You still gotta show Trojan dat one move. It's like, I tell him bout it and 'ee doan' believe me, so I try to show him and I nearly kill myself. It was hysterical. Oh yeah, still getting tons of shit for it. So you gotta, like, redeem me here."

"You know he wouldn't be cool with it."

"Yeah, well… we're not exactly 'cool with it,' either!" Ton-Ton snapped, getting up and stalking off into the kitchen.

Zentaro sighed and rose to follow him, ever the peacemaker.

"Wednesday? What da fuck's on Wednesday? I din' hear about nutting 'bout – haha, yeah I'm messin' wit' you, man. Look, I'm sorry I missed last week's lesson, but had a good excuse! Tole my sister I'd help her out, man. Ya can't jus' blow off family."

He tried to focus on what Chez and Mike were talking about, afraid to let Zentaro's quiet talk with Ton-Ton reach him.

"Yeah, you got it, man. It's a deal. Heh…. Hey, Pyro! C'mere."

"No."

"He wanna talk to you, man!"

"Zen said to rest."

"You—hah. Ok, ok. Hang on." Sanchez hauled himself up off the chair and moved over to deposit the phone in Pyro's lap. "He called me a lazy punk ass, made me bring da phone to you."

Pyro sighed at him. Then, slowly, he lifted the cell phone up to his ear. "Sup, freak," he mumbled hoarsely.

"Hey, Pyro. So yer sick, huh?"

"Yeah…"

"Bummer, man. Yeah, you don't sound too good. But you should be feeling better in time for the party at least, yeah? Food poisoning doesn't last that long. Day or two, tops. I had it a couple times."

_Well, shit._ It was weird to think mutant turtles could get such normal ailments. "I don't know. That's just what Ton-Ton's sayin'. I'm thinkin' it could be like… I dunno. Some stomach flu thing."

"Yeah? Hey, you want me to bring you chicken noodle soup?"

Pyro looked down at his forgotten ramen. It wasn't even half gone. "You don't gotta. Zen and the others been takin' care of me."

"Ok, well… it's your loss. Cuz we're not even talkin' Campbell's, right? My chicken noodle soup kicks some _ass_."

A smile touched his lips, his first in awhile. He'd held onto his wariness for longer than most of the others, suspicious by nature, but… the freak was just so damned _nice_. He could just see it, Mike showing up with a Tupperware container full of homemade soup and that huge grin on his face. "It's okay, man. They're takin' good care of me. I can't promise I'll be there Saturday, but – we'll see, okay?"

"Rock on! Well, I guess it's for the best. I'd have to go home to make soup, and… if I go home, m'gonna have to put the smack down on one of my brothers. And, I dunno… I guess I'm just not in the mood."

"Heh. It's fine."

"But I woulda! Just for you. Hey, you take it easy, man."

He smiled again. "Yeah, I will."

"And, uh, drink lots of fluids."

"What for?"

"Dunno. That's just what I always get told whenever I'm sick."

"Yeah, okay," Pyro chuckled. "Well, catch ya later."

He hung up the phone, still vaguely smiling down at it. But then there was only silence except the conversation drifting in from the kitchen, and his happiness was quick to evaporate.

"—but then why you ask him to stay here? You very angry. If you not ready to help him, is okay. We can take care of this..."

"I – naw, it ain't like that. I mean. I _do_ want to help."

"If you want to help then you must show compassion."

"I know. I'm just – real disappointed, I guess."

"Because of Mikey-san?"

"Because of _everything!_ I just…" He heard Ton-Ton pause and sigh. "I just thought we were past all this."

Pyro's eyes began to sting. He set the phone down next to the half-eaten ramen and lay back down on the mattress. Turning to face the wall, he blinked, and blinked some more, and waited, but his sorrow refused to abate. _He's right. I'd been doing so well. How did I let this happen?_

God, he felt so low.

o O o


	7. Love and Patience

**Author's Note: **

**_Thanks once again for the beta read, Dierdre! You caught a ton of errors I missed. I don't proofread very well at 3 o'clock in the morning, turns out! Also I want to thank Tori (MTAngeli here on FFnet) for her help during the early draft stages. Her advice helped me tighten up the dialog and clarify my intentions for this chapter. _**

**_It wasn't even plotted in the original outline; it was a transition I decided to turn into its own chapter at the last minute, and I expected it to be brief. Well... somehow it just took off, and now it's probably the Influence chapter I'm most proud of, to date!_**

**_Please enjoy!_**

**_XOXO_**

**_Winnychan_**

* * *

o O o

**------------ I N F L U E N C E ------------**

o O o

_**

* * *

**_

_**--- C h a p t e r **__**-- S e v e n ---**_

Sitting outside Donatello's room, meditating in the lotus position and holding his shell cell to keep the time, Leonardo waited.

Waiting, at least, was an easy and familiar chore. He had always been good at it.

Ten minutes…

Twenty minutes...

After thirty minutes had passed, Leo opened his eyes.

Glancing over one shoulder, he looked sadly at the heavy steel door behind him. It remained as it had been: closed, bolted, and immoveable. The light in the panel continued to emit a steady red glow.

Getting up to his feet, his stiff muscles protesting, Leonardo reflected that Don's notion of 'just a few minutes' had always been more than a little skewed.

* * *

o O o

* * *

"Kneel." Splinter gestured to the _tatami_ mat before him with a wave of his graceful, clawed hand. 

It was a command he had issued to his sons countless times - often enough that, unless they were in trouble or the circumstances were somehow dire, they tended to drop rather casually, each with their own unique quirks.

Donatello had horrible poise by default and always tended to sit with his shoulders hunched, shifting his weight back and forth, fidgeting or picking at his cuticles, with a downcast gaze that broke away from the _tatami_ mat regularly to steal intent looks and curious upward glances. He was almost always polite, always courteous, and slow to anger. There were only a few times Splinter could recall Donatello speaking out of turn, and each time it had been to ask some urgent question. Each time the answer had been very important to him. But for the most part he liked to mull his thoughts over first, and preferred not to speak on a matter until he had made a full blueprint in his mind and considered it from every possible angle. He was a cautious boy, and generally quiet, but he could always be drawn out of his shyness by turning the discussion to one of his inventions or projects.

Splinter had noticed that lately Donatello's emotions were getting the better of him, and of course it worried him to some extent. But the truth was that he was far more disturbed by the fact that even now, months later, he still did not know_ why_.

This new tendency to keep secrets was also more troubling. It wasn't that Splinter had ever caught him lying; it was just that he seemed so very private, these days… far more private than he had been in his dreamy-eyed youth. He was a shrewd and wise old rat, and knew better than to easily dismiss his intuition. Any time Donatello was directly questioned about a thing, he always seemed to answer earnestly and with the utmost sincerity. Still, Splinter couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he just wasn't asking the right questions.

It might have something to do with his son's relationship with that time apprentice girl (Donatello still had not confessed anything about her, and Splinter knew that soon he would have to stop stalling and bring the matter up himself.) Still, somehow he thought there was more to it than a secret romance. Sometimes the rat would catch a glimpse of… _something_… on his son's far-away face that stirred much concern in him. Sometimes he got the feeling that the things Donatello was not telling them were starting to haunt him…

Raphael tended to throw himself to the floor in a 'whump' and stare down at his kneepads impatiently. Sometimes he would even crack his knuckles, in spite of Splinter's repeated requests that he refrain. He'd given up trying to break Raphael of this habit years ago, but he would _not _suffer such obnoxious and disrespectful behavior during training, meditation, or private counsel. It seemed honestly unintentional on his part, and Raphael would typically duck his head and mumble some vague and sheepish apology. But there were also days when he was especially difficult, and in such a mood he would slap his hands back down with an annoyed grunt or a sullen mutter. Once, and only once, did Raphael have the audacity to look Splinter dead in the eye and crack his knuckles _again_. His insolence had earned the twelve-year-old turtle a cuff that sent him sprawling.

The range and velocity of Raphael's emotions were staggering at times, and he was by far the worst at controlling his temper or the sharpness of his tongue. Even when successfully commanded into silence, he was still capable of speaking volumes with just the set of his jaw, the huff of his breath, or a deeply etched furrow in his pale, mottled brow.

Michelangelo had been known to launch himself onto the _tatami_ mats and into the proper position with a dramatic slide across the polished floor on both knees, both hands over his head and his fingers splayed in what Splinter guessed were some kind of "rock-and-roll" signs – or the closest he could come to them with only three fingers, anyway.

No one spoke out of turn more often than Michelangelo, or for such absurd reasons. He was a far worse offender than Donatello when it came to squirming and fidgeting, and just as likely to peek up before he was supposed to. And not just to sneak glances at Splinter! ANYTHING shiny or somehow interesting might catch his eye without warning and send his attention skittering off across the room, or into the playground of his own mind. To counsel Michelangelo, one had to command his attention quite actively. Fortunately Splinter possessed enough love and patience to find these faults endearing, even when they were also quite exhausting at times.

Michelangelo was a bright boy, and had shown extraordinary natural talent in so many aspects. The part of him that was their teacher felt as frustrated by that fact as he was proud, lately. He knew his youngest pupil had the potential to achieve great things. If he would only put his focus towards bettering himself, and stopped obsessing on frivolities and fun long enough to realize what was truly important in life…

At times he ached to demand more of the boy, or to confront him with the realities of just how great he could be. Make a lure of it, insist to him that he could _be _one of those superheroes he so idolized. He could become a true master of his generation, if only Splinter could somehow persuade him to _try_ harder!

But did he have the right? Was it _just_ for him to tell his youngest son what his dreams should be, where to place his love, or even how to spend his days once he was fully grown? 'No,' his heart always whispered. 'You do not have that right.'

It was the sort of potential that could only be realized by Michelangelo himself. And ultimately, Splinter suspected that the qualities Michelangelo lacked now would likely to come to his son naturally. Given just a few more years - time enough for his rampant hormones to settle, at least - he would likely find the wisdom and maturity to uncover the truth of his potential. The teacher in him was excited by this thought, and sometimes wished Michelangelo would grow up faster because of it.

But the father in him could never want for such a thing. The father in him was so very glad to still have a boy who came to him beaming like the sun, showing off his rock-and-roll fingers. He even prayed that his son might somehow stay that way – if not forever, than for a few more years at least.

Finally there was his eldest, Leonardo, who seemed able to do almost _everything_ perfectly. There were exceptions, of course. He still could not accept his own shortcomings gracefully, and he never knew when to relax and just be himself.

Leonardo was the only one of them who _never _knelt before him casually, regardless of the situation. There was never any variation in the way he performed this respect-paying ritual. The splay of his hands, the angle of his neck, and the arch of his foot on the mat were all identical to the way he had mastered it as a small child, with no difference but the necessary allowances that had been made for his lengthening limbs and changes to his proportions over the years. And yet somehow, it was never mechanical. There was always a reverence to his poise that struck Splinter as utterly genuine.

In other words, Leonardo's posture was perfection - the shining example he could have held up for his other sons emulate, should they wish for improvement. Splinter knew it wasn't likely, nor was he the petty sort of master who would demand it. Each of his sons had their own ways of showing him that they loved and respected him. For Leonardo, this uncanny discipline was one of many. Splinter knew that in the discussion to follow, this son's focus would be diamond-like and unshakeable. The other boys might listen to him, but Leonardo seemed to tuck his every word away someplace deep inside his breast for safekeeping.

When they were done, he would bow (the others sometimes forgot to pay him this courtesy, but never Leonardo) and walk out the door, and Splinter could be sure that he was carrying those words inside him still. Later he would pour over them - perhaps for hours at a time, if the conversation had struck a chord in him. And years later, Splinter might peek in on a training session and marvel at hearing his son quoting him perfectly, word for word.

He was always very serious by default, but today he noticed that Leonardo's expression was especially grave. Still, Splinter's whiskers twitched and his lips threatened to smile at these paternal thoughts as he considered his eldest son. Gravity and perfection: these were things he could understand. He did not carry such a burden of duty in his youth, but he had known the drive. Even as a pet confined to a cage, how he had ached to learn! How he had pushed and pushed and pushed himself, making a lesson of whatever he could see, hoarding any scrap of knowledge he could find, always demanding more of himself than the rest of the world's humble expectations. _We share no blood, and yet I see such a mirror of myself in this dear boy…_

"What troubles you, my son?"

Leonardo knew this was also permission to lift his head, and most of his defenses lowered as he did so. Worry and apprehension came spilling out of his eyes as he opened them in appeal. "What troubles me?" A pinch of tension marred his brow, as if he was trying to check his own desperation with only partial success. "Master Splinter – where do I _start?_ Everything I've learned these past few days troubles me! Mikey's been doing drugs, _sensei_ – for _months_, apparently! And even though Donatello _knew_ about it, he didn't know how to solve it! But…" Leonardo shook his head grimly and then went on to rally against himself in a blaze, "But I can't let you blame him. _I'm _the one ultimately responsible. _I wasn't there_ _for him!_ I should've been here. I _would _have been if only I'd obeyed your orders!"

Splinter watched him serenely throughout all of this, allowing his son the much needed chance to vent his frustrations and guilt. But now he did lift a hand to pause him. Leonardo immediately fell silent, looking up at him obediently.

"Breathe, Leonardo," Splinter ordered very gently. "Take a moment to let your heart grow calm. Then, please continue."

He drew in several breaths, centering himself. When he spoke again Leonardo's voice was steady with regained calm, but there was still a low note of despair in it. "It was my arrogance, _sensei_... and it was my shame that kept me from writing home. I was ashamed at how long I'd left you all to wonder and worry about me. I knew I had been gone too long, but I was afraid that if I called or wrote you'd convince me to come home... perhaps even demand it. I just kept picturing myself returning home and being unable to hide my discouragement. And you would remind me how difficult all the trials were meant to be, and I just didn't want to hear any assurances. I didn't want to be told that passing four of five tests was still... impressive."

Splinter frowned gently. Leonardo spoke that last word in a way that revealed he had developed some distaste for it. Thinking back over his own speech patterns for a moment, the old rat considered that during training and lessons he may have made an unintentional habit of using that word when he was not yet completely satisfied but still felt the student deserved praise. Fast progress, a resilient attitude, determination, or a show of effort beyond what was expected or required... these things never escaped Splinter's notice and almost always filled his heart with a paternal swell of appreciation.

But while Leonardo was by far the most likely son to reward him thus, he was also the hardest to praise for it. Lately it seemed wiser to save his praise until a lesson was fully mastered, because Leonardo would take no satisfaction from anything positive he might say about his performance until it was well and truly flawless.

"When you told me how long it had been since anyone passed all five of the trials... I realize now that you were trying to warn me about the realities I was about to face. But – somehow, I didn't hear any of that. I was just – _certain_ I would be the one to succeed where no one else had in three generations. I was just so… so _laughably_ sure of myself. Right until I looked up to realize that I had reached the final month of the year you had given me.

"I started to panic. In that last month, my search for the right community became frantic. Then – in the blink of an eye, it seemed – the year was gone. And I had no choice but to accept that fact that now, no matter what, I would be late.

"I didn't know what to do, then. A part of me ached to go home. But I kept thinking that if I stayed a little bit longer and figured out that fifth trial... at least THEN I could return successful, and just a little bit delayed. I thought that would be better… than to come home late AND a failure."

Leonardo went on to upbraid himself severely. "But if I'd been here… if I'd even made myself available enough to exchange letters, I could have told Don what to say to Mikey! Maybe I could have helped him find the confidence to put an early stop it, before it became much of a problem..." His words fell soft and so thick with emotion that Splinter's heart ached for him. "How could I have been so selfish? How could I justify so many months, and not even call you... Not even write! _How could I abandon them, sensei?_ And for no better reason than my pathetic little ego, my - my own _stupid pride!_"

"Hshhhh…" the rat whispered, in just the way he had soothed them when they were very small. He had managed to keep his composure, but Splinter knew his eldest was near tears.

"Father," Leonardo whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"You know that you do not need to ask my forgiveness," Splinter told him gently, and not for the first time. "It has already been given." But he also knew his son well enough to expect he would continue to ask for it until he found a way to forgive himself. "You are learning your lesson, my son. That is what truly matters. I can see that you are learning it, even by what you just said to me."

Leonardo lifted his gaze, looking up at Splinter intently through the shine of unshed tears.

Splinter returned his look solemnly. "You have learned that the problems you thought you faced in Costa Rica – which seemed so enormous at the time – were not your greatest problems after all."

"Yes, _sensei._"

"And what else?"

"Well – all the communities I found there…" Leonardo trailed off, looking at him uncertainly.

"Yes?" Splinter did not smile, but his bright eyes were encouraging.

"I could try to help. I could watch over any one of them." Leo frowned distantly, his gaze turned inward to revisit recent memories. "But no matter where I went, or how many people I helped, I would always find more suffering as near as the next village. And if I backtracked, I would find it had returned to villages I'd left behind. After awhile it started to feel like I wasn't doing any good out there at all. Nothing I did was _lasting_. I kept risking my life, time and again…" Leonardo shook his head, his eyes dropping with apology as he quietly confessed, "By the time April found me, I was _tired_ of it, father. It just…" He grimaced like the admission pained him, but concluded honestly, "it just didn't feel _worth it._"

Splinter gave him a slow, emphatic nod. "And why do you think your heart grew heavy in this task? Did you fear that your growing reluctance was -- what, selfishness? Or was the heat making you lazy, perhaps?"

His eldest spotted the twinkle in his eye and almost smiled. Leonardo was many things, but lazy was not one of them, and they both knew it. "No, _sensei_."

"What, then?"

Leonardo faltered, searching Splinter's eyes. He was not sure that he was correct, and he hated the feeling. He held his breath for a moment, and then answered, "None of them were _my_ community. My community… is here in New York, with you and my brothers."

Splinter smiled and dipped his nose slightly to acknowledge the correct answer. The set of Leonardo's shoulders relaxed slightly. "And now that you have begun to recognize the true problems you face... how will you proceed from here, Leonardo?"

Worry flickered through his son's eyes. Clearly he had come hoping for guidance on these very matters. Perhaps something in the phrasing of his question gave Leonardo the warning that he was being tested.

"First... I'll call Raphael and touch base with him on the shell cell," he decided slowly, after a long pause for thought. "Then figure out some way to get Donnie to come out of his room."

Splinter accepted the plan with a bow of his whiskered nose. "As Michelangelo might say... _good call_."

When Leonardo rose, he bowed to Splinter in just the way he always had. His face was brave with new determination, and as Splinter watched him go he felt another surge of love and pride.

The boy was doing just fine.

* * *

o O o

* * *

Leonardo half expected Raphael would be on his motorcycle by now and unable to answer, but he picked up right away. 

"Leo?"

"Raph, where are you?" His tone was sharp and to the point, the voice of a young general.

"Just off the corner 'a 7th and 52nd. Balcony, couple stories up."

"And Mikey's there with you? What's the situation?"

"No. I mean, yeah. Sort of."

Leo pressed his lips together for a moment, considering the oddness of that answer. Then he confirmed, somewhat crisply, _"Sort of?"_

"Right. Look, he's down on the street jus' below me," Raph hissed defensively. "S'why I gotta keep it down." Right away Leo suspected there was more to the quiet in Raph's voice than just a vested interest in subterfuge, but it was too early to be sure. "Caught up with him just as he left the sewers."

"He went topside, then?" Leo verified.

"Yeah."

Leo's question had been flat, almost dangerous to hear. Standing alone in the empty hallway outside Don's door, Leo's brow ridges were drawn with the same apprehension that always filled him at the thought of the surface world, and the many dangers that could befall his brothers there, at any moment.

It used to drive him nuts when Raph would make him feel this way. All those disappearing acts he had pulled over the years… The bloody battles they'd waged over whether or not the Hothead had permission to leave.

But this time it wasn't Raph, was it? It was Mike.

His sweet, goofy, hyperactive kid brother Mikey.

"Jesus," he whispered.

"Look, it's okay. I been trailin' him on foot ever since. Careful, so he ain't seen me. Just... gimme time, okay? I ain't made the jump on him yet."

Leonardo frowned, glancing down at the shell cell's readout to check the time. It wasn't like Raph to mince words like this. His tone was still commanding, but it was starting to occur to him that the hush in his brother's voice might mean that something had really spooked him. "Well, what's the holdup? What's he doing right now?"

"He's. Uh. He's been writin' in this book, and..." He heard Raph swallow hard. "Uh… makin' phone calls." He could almost picture his brother's unhappy grimace when he mumbled, "I just. I been... overhearing some things, Leo."

Worry was twisting its way rapidly through Leonardo's gut now. "Get to the point and tell me what you've learned," he demanded urgently.

"I... He's... rnf!" A subtle but unsettling sound accompanied that grunt. Leonardo had heard it enough times before to recognize it immediately. That soft 'thuk' was Raphael's battered knuckles coming into violent contact with some nearby concrete.

"Okay, stop that. Please," Leo said with a flinch. He hated that sort of self-destructive behavior. "Look, I'm not trying to boss you around about this. It's just, when I'm this concerned, it -- comes out that way sometimes."

"Yeah," Raph made a sound in the back of his throat, a single grunt of mirthless laughter. "Uh. Never woulda noticed."

"You... _can't_ tell me, can you?" Leo realized quietly.

"No."

Leonardo brought one hand up to massage his temples briefly. It certainly wasn't what he wanted to hear. But just that single word seemed to ring with such a heavy note of regret that Leo could not muster even a shred of annoyance towards him. "All right," he conceded, heaving a troubled sigh. "That's fine, Raph."

The other end of the line got very quiet.

Leonardo waited through several more beats of silence. Eventually he started to wonder if their call may have accidentally been disconnected. "Raph?" he asked, not sure he'd get a response.

"Uh, right. Still here," Raph spoke up quickly. "I just... are you serious?"

Leonardo suffered a mild pang of something like shame, taking a moment to consider his brother's obviously stunned reaction. Because the truth was, a couple years ago he probably WOULD have responded with both anger and indignation. At the very least, he would have tried to drag more of the truth out of his brother. But now he somberly insisted, "Actually, I'm dead serious. I saw how Mike reacted to Donnie. Right now, you might be the only one of us he trusts. If that's true... we can't afford to risk it."

"Leo. I can't go down there right now," Raph confessed abruptly. "I'll wind up kicking his ass."

Leo paused, and then said with quiet insistence, "Please don't do that."

"I – It's not that I want to! Just, you know," Raph's voice was low, strangled with conflicting emotions, "that I might. He'll start getting defensive, say some punk ass shit to rile me up, and... and I'll lose it. Like always! And -"

"Raph," Leo countered firmly, and not unkindly. "Listen to me. It doesn't have to be that way."

"Damn it!" Raphael snarled with frustration. "Dunno what ta do. I'm no good at this. Wish I could just tell you."

An idea came to him. "What if he said you could?"

"Say what, now?"

"What if you asked him first, and then told me?"

"You want me to ask him," Raph echoed, the words slow and very dubious, "if I can snitch on him."

"It wouldn't be snitching if you got permission," Leonardo observed patiently.

"Umm. You lost me, Leo. Why would he even do that? Why give me permission?"

"Because he loves you? Because it's what's best for our team, and he knows it? Because if he doesn't, you're gonna give him a knuckle sandwich? Whatever you think will work!" Leo added, vaguely wry, "I mean, normally I'd tell you that the best thing to do would be just to sit him down and talk it out honestly, but… if it's coming from you, there's just no way he's going to buy it."

Leonardo paused to wet his lips, wishing he could see Raph's face right now. It would be nice to have some clue as to how he was taking all this. He'd been trying to help Raph relax with the jibe. He had hoped for a chuckle, expected at least a grunt of acknowledgement… But on the other end of the line there was only silence.

Rather than let it stretch, he spoke up to break it himself. "But your biggest priority should be just getting him back to the lair." The playful moment passed, and he was back to his usual self - sober and commanding. "Okay, Raph?" he prompted.

"Right, okay," Raph muttered. "Look, I'll try. But fuck, Leo. This… ain't gonna be easy."

"Probably not. But… I need you to try, okay? Try to keep his trust. Try to stay on his side, because I think he needs a friend right now. And most importantly, be safe and bring him home to us. I know it's a tall order, but –" The words almost caught in his throat. He had to push them past his teeth before his brain latched onto some reason why he just couldn't say that... "Raph. I have faith in you."

Leonardo didn't wonder this time if the call had dropped. This had to be more stunned silence.

"I – okay. I'll – try to—" Raph spluttered at first, and had to cut himself off and start over with a sharp, indrawn breath. His next words spilled out in the hush of his exhale, "…By your wish."

"What—" Leonardo froze. His first inclination was to doubt his senses. It had been pitched so low, said in such a rush, that it was easier to think he must have dreamt it. "What did you say?"

"Fuck you, you heard me." The line went dead with a click.

Leo stared at the tunnel wall ahead, his eyes wide and round with astonishment, even after the dial tone began to hum.

o O o

* * *

_**AN: If you are confused about what Raphael overheard, please go back and skim chapter 6 for the phone call with Michelangelo, and try to picture his end of the call... Especially the stuff he was saying to Sanchez. Mwahaha... so Raph is kinda freaked out, yeah. **_


	8. The Latest Hypothesis

o O o

**------------ I N F L U E N C E ------------**

o O o

_**--- C h a p t e r **__**-- E i g h t ---**_

"Er, hello?"

"It's been over forty-five minutes, Donnie. How much longer do you—"

"Leo!" Donnie sounded both genuinely surprised and mildly horrified to hear his oldest brother's voice on the other end of the line. "Geez, I'm so sorry! Here, let me get the door unsealed for you."

The call disconnected abruptly. Leo stood blinking at his shell cell for a moment or two before snapping it closed and looking towards Don's steel double-doors, which had begun to emit a soft, mechanical hum. The sound ceased and simultaneously the red light on the nearby panel went dark. A few moments later Don himself emerged, and Leonardo couldn't help noting that he seemed perfectly calm now, if a bit urgent with apology. "Have you -- have you been waiting out here this whole time?"

"Of course I was waiting," Leo insisted with a patient smile, although there was a gentle scolding in his tone. "You were very upset when you ran in there, Donnie. I was worried about you. Not to mention I still feel partly responsible for what happened, so of course I want to do everything I can to help."

"I just – oh, it's horrible to admit, but – I completely forgot about you! Normally I can always calm myself down by putting myself to work on something, and – well, as you can see, it worked. I guess it didn't occur to me to stop working, just because I'd regained control of my emotions. Gah, but that's the worst excuse ever, and here you've been sitting outside my door for –" Glancing back into his room to check a large digital clock hanging behind him, he plastered one hand over his forehead and exclaimed with dismay, "I can't believe it's even BEEN forty-five minutes!"

"It's okay, Don!" Leo grinned. He was glad to hear his brother sounding like himself again; the teary episode earlier had spooked him. "Happens to the best of us. Can I come in and see what you've been working on?" He wasn't really going to accept a 'no' after the wait he had endured, so he barreled forward and wondered earnestly, "Is it something for Mikey?"

"Er. Well, yes." For a moment his elusive brother seemed about to claim that whatever he was working on was too private to share. He voiced no protest, but Leo thought he saw it race over his face briefly, making his eyes dart. Then all at once Don seemed to regain momentum, backing up and tugging the door wider to allow for Leo's bold entrance. "It might be – kind of – hard to explain," he warned, wringing his hands shyly. A few steps in, he paused to give his room a self-conscious, circumnavigating glance - probably fretting because of the clutter. Leonardo's brothers had been calling him 'neat freak' for as long as he could remember, but a messy bedroom was really the least of his worries right now. He had no intention of bringing it up.

Shuffling back over to where he'd been working prior to the interruption, Don perched on the edge of his worn but comfy looking office chair and fidgeted, shooting Leo a wary glance. Then he reached for his keyboard, which was mounted to a heavy-duty swiveling tray, tugging it closer.

And not just any keyboard, of course… but a custom-built, three-foot long monster of Don's own sleek and entirely original design, with backlighting, USB ports, flash reader slots along the sides, and other techy connector holes and receivers and things that Leonardo could not begin to understand.

Leonardo caught himself staring down at the keyboard. He was secretly terrified of the thing.

This was not something he could easily admit to his family, or even to himself. After all, he was no longer a total n00b when it came to computers. He'd worked hard to become at least adept enough to research anything he might want to know on the internet. Somewhere along the way he'd also learned how to send and receive email, install and run programs, and how to perform basic maintenance on the machine Don had been happy to put together for him. But all these were just offshoots of his original goal: to unlock the secrets of the search engine. Not one BIT of it had come to him naturally. The fact that he could even use a word like 'n00b' these days in every day conversation was a testament to how far he'd come.

The thickness of their fingers and the sheer size of their hands compared to a human's had made typing very challenging for all of them, so he might have been inclined to appreciate the oversized keys. If only there weren't so damned MANY of them! Large panels of extra buttons fanned out from all sides, neatly but ambiguously labeled with cryptic symbols and acronyms that were completely foreign to Leo. But they'd been arranged in such a professional and orderly way around the U.S. Standard 121-keys that they seemed to fit together almost seamlessly.

_And apparently __none__ of these extra buttons performs such a sensible function as 'PRINT.'_ Leo couldn't help the dour thought, watching Don's hand move to the standard keys to hold down CTRL with one finger and P with the other. It only leant further fuel to his dark suspicions about the keyboard. An innocent typo could prove disastrous. For all he knew, "spiral with four dots around it" might be the lair's self destruct button.

When he compared his current technical aptitude to where it had been just five years prior, he was sometimes tempted to think of himself as downright savvy. He had certainly surpassed his two youngest brothers; Mike only seemed to know how to play games on his, and Raph's desktop had acquired a thick layer of dust. But one look at this keyboard and all sense of accomplishment and competence was swiftly vanquished. Faced with such solid evidence of Donatello's staggering genius, he was a bumbling idiot. He was a child.

But a damaged pride wasn't the worst of his fears. The worst came after Don had explained – with the animated zeal of a young boy showing off his coolest new toy – that this thing was compatible with seven different operating systems. Leonardo hadn't even known there WERE that many operating systems, and had said as much. That's when Don had dropped the bomb – it had limited functionality with the most popular interfaces being used by the Utroms, the Triceratons, and the Federation of Allied Planets. Don had prattled on for a bit about clearance issues he was having with the Federation's Datafeed, but Leo had trouble listening to much of what he was saying after that. His stomach had not recovered from its horrible lurch, and he could only remember that night years ago when Mike had rushed into his room after a nightmare. In this dream, Don had called them all together to announce that he was moving away – far, far away, taking a space ship across the galaxy to live with aliens, so he could learn from them…

He'd patted Mike's face dry, rocked him, and assured him repeatedly that it was silly and impossible. But now… gazing helplessly at Don's keyboard, Leonardo felt a chill creep over him. Lately Michelangelo's dream did not seem so unthinkable, after all.

A nearby printer woke up and began buzzing noisily, jostling Leo out of his dark thoughts. Luckily, Don did not seem to have noticed his staring and just gave the printer a weary nod. He'd drawn his posture in defensively, sitting with his shoulders hunched. "I might not even use it," he mumbled, looking away. "I don't know. Each time I read it over, the whole idea sounds more stupid to me."

Leonardo retrieved the page of small print and looked it over. His brow ridges furrowed with some initial confusion. "It's – this is a contract," he pointed out uncertainly, honestly wondering if Don had printed off the wrong thing by mistake.

"That's right," Don confirmed softly. "Detailing the ways my behavior will change – and other promises I'd like to make him, if – if he'll just forgive me."

Leo bobbed his head once and fell silent, dropping his eyes to the printout and carefully reading over what Donatello had written so far. It did not appear to be complete, but there was more than enough for the blue-masked turtle to get the general gist of it. "Well, I can see why you have reservations about giving it to him, now that you've had some time to calm down," he said at last. "It's a noble gesture, I guess, but I'm sure you've realized now that all this might be – ah, overcompensating, given the circumstances?"

"You think so?" Don canted his head to glance at Leonardo strangely, before averting his gaze off towards one of the monitors. "Actually, I'd been thinking that it might be too little, too late."

Leonardo gave a single, incredulous blink at this before smoothly adjusting his tactics to accommodate the new information. "Donnie… you know Michelangelo can't hold a grudge. I guess I don't understand why you even got as upset as you did about it. He's not going to hate you forever! I doubt he could hold out for more than a day or two. He's just not capable."

"I know. That's - that's not the point."

"Then what IS the point?"

"I just – _I need him_, Leo." Don still wouldn't meet his gaze, hugging his arms around his plastron and looking down at his lap. "Maybe now more than ever, and I've been trying to tell him. But not trying hard enough, I think. And – and once again, all I've managed to do is push him further away."

Leo opened his mouth, ready with five different ways to refute this dark notion of Mike being beyond all emotional reach. But something in the rapid-fire, yet very quiet, way that Donnie spoke those words gave him pause. Leo studied his brother for a moment, and it belatedly occurred to him that there must be more to what was being said than the immediate predicament.

"Talk to me?" he pleaded, moving away from the printer and towards Donatello. He took up a seat right on the edge of the desk nearest Don's office chair, closing most of the physical distance between them. Yet Leonardo still felt like he was trying to catch his younger brother's gaze from a million miles away. "Help me to understand why you're taking this so hard."

A long silence followed his questions, and Leo suffered it awkwardly. But just as he was beginning to suspect his efforts were going to be met with complete and utter failure, Don lifted his head and looked him square in the eyes.

Leonardo could sense a lot, these days, just by meeting a person's gaze head-on. If he chose, he could see right into the core of them – fall witness to their present thoughts, strongest desires, greatest fears, and even their most painfully kept secrets. He would not, of course, being new to these mind arts and expressly forbidden to make "invasive entry" except under the direct guidance of a sensei, the Ancient One or Master Splinter.

It couldn't have been more than a beat or two before Don's eyes fell shyly into his lap again. But Leo hadn't been expecting it, and for a moment he had Looked – just long enough to realize he was doing it and drag his awareness back to a proper and respectful distance. Just for a moment, an eye-blink really - a bright burst of current emotion and the distant murmur of his thoughts, a muffled and incoherent thrumming hanging just out of reach. He didn't See much… but it was enough to flood his heart with new hope.

_Donnie is still in my confidence, even after what happened with Mikey. He needs this silence to gather his scattered thoughts, secure the tethers on his emotions, but – he's already decided to confide in me._

Thus it came as no surprise when Donatello cleared his throat and abruptly launched into the telling of a story. "When we were kids growing up," he began, speaking softly and rather cautiously, "I probably spent more time alone than any of you. And I was content with that, for the most part. Not entirely. Not – as much as I seemed to be, perhaps, but I was almost content. You see, it was before I'd become so well acquainted with circuit boards… I wouldn't be allowed to know the sweet company of a soldering gun for years to come." The corner of his mouth ticked a half-grin.

"Ah - the good old days, when repairing broken appliances was still a challenge?" Leo supplied.

"Well, I don't know about _that_," Don clarified, allowing himself a vain moment – although it could not come without his typical blush. "I was at least improving said appliances with my own upgrades by that point."

"Mm-hm. Though if I recall, said appliances would return to the shelves looking hideous and somewhat more hazardous to our health," Leo observed with a smirk.

"Well, that's PRECISELY why I needed a soldering gun, now isn't it!" Don exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Anyway – the point is, my studies and scope were all rather limited in those days. I had my books, I suppose – and that log of failed and successful experiments that I was constantly scribbling in. But the truth is, I don't think I even knew what lonely felt like until I started noticing the close relationship that had grown between Mike and Raph.

"I remember how it started to sting me every time they would refer to one another as 'best friends'. I mean, I guess they were never terribly loud about it. Maybe – it just seemed that way at times. But still, I remember thinking it was an awful thing for them to claim out loud -- and in front of us, no less -- like they were breaking some unspoken taboo. As brothers, shouldn't we love one another equally?" Don's lips pulled into a distant smile. "I was young and naïve, I suppose. Mainly it came down to this: I felt excluded, and - I guess - a bit jealous. Not overwhelmingly. I'm not trying to say it wrecked my whole childhood or anything. But they were just such a shameless team, those two. And they always seemed to have the most fun when you and I weren't tagging along with them."

Leonardo found himself nodding along with Don's words now. He could certainly relate to all of that.

"Then puberty hit, and we all underwent some measure of change, I think. But for one of us in particular, those changes were – uh, significant." Don's mouth quirked at the corners and he waved his fingers vaguely towards Leo. "I'm sure you, if anyone, could wager a guess?"

"Raph," Leo answered with wistful certainty. "He became angrier, more violent... Seeking danger and taking stupid risks all the time, driving everyone crazy. Then Splinter charged ME with the task of keeping him from going up to the surface without express permission, and things got so much worse... Oh, I remember those years well, Don." Leonardo made a rough noise in his throat that Don knew well enough to recognize as his subdued laughter, though it would have fooled most humans. "Nightmare that it was, how could I ever forget?"

Donatello didn't speak right away, but studied Leo for several moments before eventually giving a thoughtful nod. "But what I don't think you remember, or even realized, was how hard those changes were for Mikey. And of course no one could blame you for being preoccupied, so please don't take that the wrong way. Everyone knows Raph was more than enough to keep your hands full. Splinter's, too, for that matter.

"Mike tried to go along with Raph for a good while, just because it was what he'd always done -- but the truth was he never wanted to find himself in real danger, or land himself in trouble just for the sake of rebelling. All he's EVER really wanted is just to have fun and spend time with us.

"I think the incident with the wrench was a sort of wake-up call for him. He'd been getting discouraged well before that, but it had been building up gradually…"

"Really? I thought he almost seemed to shrug it off," Leonardo murmured, frowning at the ugly memory. "The wrench, I mean. I remembered thinking that I would've been a lot more shaken up…"

"Oh, he wanted to shrug it off. He certainly tried. But you know Mikey… He gets worked up over the little things. But when it's something _really_ important – especially when it's about us – he's fine, he's fine, he's fine…"

"He's fine, right until he bursts into tears," Leonardo sighed.

"Exactly. It wasn't so much the way he was acting that same night, but in the days that followed… that's when he started showing signs of depression. I wasn't much of a medical wiz back then, so I didn't realize quite how textbook his symptoms really were. But he seemed too subdued to me, and there would be times when he'd smile, and – I'd just get the awful feeling that he was faking it. The scariest part was that I was the only one who even seemed to notice! But there was no solid proof I could bring to Splinter, nothing concrete enough to properly justify my suspicions. It was just a bunch of little things: he wasn't going out to skate anymore, and he didn't seem to care when new comics came out…"

"It is by logic that we prove, but through intuition that we discover," Leonardo murmured, taking the opportunity to quote at him. "You should have told Splinter."

Don felt he should recognize the owner of that quote. He was pretty sure it was some mathematician. Instead he just shrugged and defended himself by pointing out, "Splinter had enough to worry about, what with you two threatening to kill each other every other night. It was for everyone, not just for Mikey, when I decided to try and take matters into my own hands. And it wasn't completely drastic – I mean, it's not like he'd started listening to My Chemical Romance and cutting himself, right?"

Leonardo had been replaying various shouting matches and a few brutal fights he'd had with Raphael during that time, and sadly considering the impact they must have had on his depressed little brother. But Don's flippant comment saved him by calling up some ridiculous mental images of an Emo Mikey. Complete with bad poetry and eye make-up, or maybe some horn-rimmed glasses… He couldn't help flashing a grin, which Don returned briefly.

Then Donatello dropped his eyes back to his lap to continue his tale. "He was just feeling pretty down – and lonely, I guess. So I decided to reach out to him." He didn't look up, but a serious smile touched his lips. "And to say he reached back would be something of an understatement! Suddenly—" Don paused to broaden his smile and shake his head, both fond and wry thinking back on these memories. "_Quite_ suddenly," he emphasized, "I had a second shadow. A shadow that followed me everywhere, bouncing and leaping around, talking and asking questions whether or not he cared enough to sit through the answers. Constantly looking over my shoulder, pointing at this, dragging me away from that, and – and picking up anything and _everything _remotely delicate or breakable…!"

"Poor thing," Leonardo smiled, sympathizing. "There must have been times you wanted to murder him."

"Oh, no," Don blinked innocently. "For the record, my fantasies never went further than aggravated assault. But I specifically remember a conversation ending with my forcing him out the door with one end of my bo, trying desperately to explain that I'd gone into the bathroom with some intention of actually _using it_, and while the topic was quite fascinating could it maybe PLEASE continue after my business was concluded?" He grinned, hitching his shoulders in a shrug and allowing, "So, yeah. There was definitely a period of adjustment on my part. But I knew it was all worthwhile, because Mike was smiling and laughing again. He was getting back on his skateboard and generally acting like himself, so I felt that my diagnosis had been accurate after all. And my efforts to give him what he needed – to _be _his cure, I guess – were ultimately a success.

"And… more than that. Having him around, keeping him close, it – grew on me, maybe." Donnie seemed less comfortable admitting this, but pressed on quietly. "And I couldn't tell you just when it happened, but one day I looked up and realized that Mikey had become _my_ best friend. I mean, we never said it. We never _had _to, but… it was the truth. We developed this banter, quite unexpectedly. For all our differences, Mikey and I have similar tastes in movies and television, and near enough senses of humor that we could just… well, I suppose you know just what I'm talking about."

"Mm-hmm," Leo gave a murmur of agreement.

"It even got so I could purposefully set up jokes, and he would finish them… which is actually kind of tricky! I mean, personally, I think it's a lot more difficult to time and deliver the setup of a joke than the punch-line…"

Leonardo folded his arms to say, his tone dry and nearly deadpan, "It's a good thing these guys aren't lumberjacks."

"Exactly! Heh, you really _do_ have a photographic memory, Leo," Don mused.

"Yeah, just about."

"Well, then I guess you can remember the rest… Right up until you left for your journey across the globe, anyway. But I think it had already started, even before that..."

Leo's brow wrinkled at this. He had a hunch, but demanded clarification just to be sure. "_What_ already started, Donnie?"

Donatello's face pinched a little. Without looking up, he elaborated, "Our growing apart."

"I see."

"So that's… that's what I've been trying to fix." He gave a laugh, but it was a sad sound and heavy with irony. "Normally fixing things comes so naturally to me, but this… there's no manual for this, Leo. There's no precedent to draw from. I'm working without a blueprint, and not even sure I have the tools…"

"Donnie, don't." Leo frowned, not liking the finality of this metaphor. He unfolded his arms and slipped off the desk to clasp a hand on Don's shoulder. "Please don't talk like that. Now, I can see what you're saying. And from what I've seen, the main problem is that you've matured in some ways that Mike hasn't. I hope you know enough not to blame yourself for something like that, because it's nobody's fault. We don't pick how fast we mature, and we're not given the option to just stop if we choose to. It's something nature dictates, understand?"

Don nodded reluctantly, feeling more than a little stupid. For all the ways he'd wracked his brain over this, he hadn't really put it to himself in such simplistic terms before.

"It's also possible that your love for science and engineering has brought you to a level of understanding that is often baffling and a little scary for the rest of us." He glanced down at Don's evil keyboard, ticking a half-smile. "Not just Michelangelo, but _all_ of us. You go off about things that seem simple to you, I'm sure, but it spooks us sometimes. And please don't think that I'm saying you should fault yourself for being brilliant, either, Donnie! You should feel only pride for that. Because even though it scares us sometimes, we're all so proud of you, too. You just – amaze us, Donnie, with some of the things you can do.

"So don't ever let me catch you regretting your abilities for our sake, but – just try and be sensitive to the fact that that we're not in your league anymore. I guess we never were, but – these days, forget the ballpark. We aren't always sure you're even on the same planet. Some of us have even been harboring this awful notion that you'll blast off into outer space one of these days – to explore strange new worlds and find the final frontiers of your abilities, so to speak – leaving the rest of us behind forever."

"Did he—" Donatello widened his eyes a little as he processed this, murmuring, "Do you think Mikey really believes that?"

"Believe is a strong word, but I know he's freaked himself out with the thought from time to time." Leonardo was tempted to leave it at that, but although his pride made it difficult, he dropped his eyes to confess quietly, "I – may have also given it some thought, myself."

"Oh… Leo," Donatello murmured, looking at him with equal parts sympathy and apology. He hesitated, pursing his lips and trying to follow that with something assuring, but couldn't think of anything to say.

Leo didn't give him the chance, speaking up before the silence could stretch any further. "What I'm trying to say is, it'd be nice if you could remind us now and then just how silly that fear is. Because if we start to believe it, can't you imagine how tempting it might be to distance ourselves prematurely? Just so it won't hurt as much when you do go?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Leo," Donnie looked at him very seriously. But he was still the most honest of them, and perhaps he could not deny the possibility. His voice fell, nearly a whisper, as he felt obliged to add with heavy reluctance, "At least – at least not for a very long time. And never 'forever', if I can help it. I promise, Leo."

Leonardo closed his eyes briefly. He didn't need Mikey sobbing premonitions, or to be haunted by an evil keyboard. Hearing it now, straight from Donnie's lips, Leo supposed he'd really known it all along. But still he let himself grieve for a moment, for that awful, distant 'some day' when he would have to be ready to let Don go.

"Okay," he murmured, opening his eyes to give Don a look of solemn acceptance. "Thank you for telling me. But I think you should also say something to Mikey… Anyway, those are two main reasons for the distance that's grown between you two, as far as I can see. And then, of course, there's a third reason." Leonardo's lips twisted, but it wasn't a smile. "Can't claim to remember it, since I wasn't around to witness any of it… But I'm pretty sure I'm the one we ought to blame."

"No. I'd rather not. Frankly, I'm sick of blaming you OR myself at this point. I would rather just get to work fixing it all. But I still don't even know where to start. Even this morning, I had an opportunity. He came in to talk to me, and I'd been in the middle of programming something, and – it wasn't even anything _important_, but if he hadn't brought up that stupid bong, I swear, I – I was this close to blowing him off! And I just don't understand why I keep doing this to myself, Leo. I—"

He was starting to sound frantic, and Leonardo felt it necessary to interject. "I'm telling you, Donnie," he emphasized, looking at him sternly, "I _promise_ you, this is well within your power. If what you want is to reconnect with Michelangelo—"

"It's not that I want to, Leo," Don insisted softly. "I need to."

Leo squinted at this, honing in on the phrasing this time. "You know, you said that before and I thought I understood. But… you mean that literally, don't you? Maybe I should ask you to clarify."

"I do mean it literally." A series of subtle emotions played quickly over his brother's face, and Leo found them all rather interesting: nervousness, embarrassment, a cringe of old pain, and even – was that relief? Donatello drew a slow breath and exhaled before speaking, pausing regularly to collect his thoughts, "I feel I – may have suffered my own battle with depression recently, Leo. On and off, this past year. And while I'm getting much better, I – suspect that sometimes I am suffering still. It's hard to be sure, when you're diagnosing yourself, but – I'd say the symptoms have been consistent enough to – match the diagnosis."

_He's rehearsed this conversation,_ Leonardo realized with certainty. His stomach was tying itself into unhappy knots, of course, but he would not let his face betray any of that. It was a perfect mask. Perfectly blank, perfectly calm.

"Now, here's the part where I try and assure to you that it's _not_ all your fault, or even mostly your fault. I'm going to insist that it's _not_ just because you went away, and it's _not_ because I was stuck being their leader, or any of that. I'm not saying it _helped_, either, but – it's not the root cause."

"Okay," Leo said very carefully.

"And while I'm saying all this with some vague hope that you might actually believe me -- and _not_ be too hard on yourself -- I think I also know you well enough not to really expect it. Especially since I'm not prepared to go into any detail about what I suspect IS the main cause."

"None at all?"

"I'm sorry, Leo," he apologized, with the sound of someone whose mind is quite made up. "None at all."

"Okay," he said again, struggling to absorb all this new information without reacting to it. "How bad of a depression are we talking here? Can you at least tell me that?"

Don pursed his lips, and then sounded apologetic as he murmured, "What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm dealing with it. I've _been_ dealing with it. And now I think I've figured out what I need to do to truly get past all this, but it means getting Mikey involved, and – _that's_ what this is about, Leo. I'd rather skip the stupid details, because we both know you tend to focus on them, and I just – I'd rather not concern you needlessly."

Leonardo almost smiled. "Little late for that, Don." He studied his brother for a moment or two before blurting, "Can't you just tell me, so I'm not left to assume the worst?" It was nothing less than the truth, but almost immediately Leo sensed his imminent failure. He didn't know for sure just _how_ he knew, for the line that separated his intuition and his new abilities was often hopelessly blurred these days. But as soon as he said it, he realized that he needed to come up with some way to lighten the seriousness of his request, or Don was not going to say another word about it. So it was all very calculated on his part (for there was really nothing funny about this situation) when he jested, "You know I have no respect for privacy when I get worried about you guys. Don't make me search your MP3 player for My Chemical Romance, Don!" He lifted a fist at his brother, mock-threatening him. "Because, I'm warning you… I'll do it!"

It worked. "Hah," Don denied adamantly, choking back a surprised laugh, "never!"

"All right, so – lay it on me," he insisted, forcing a grin. "I promise… I can take it."

Don sighed, still vaguely embarrassed but otherwise convinced. "Okay, okay. Well – uh, let's see. To date, I've killed—" He was looking up at one of the monitors now, alt-tabbing out of his contract for Mikey to pull up a different document, which looked like some sort of spreadsheet. "—forty-two perfectly innocent red-eared sliders in my quest to develop a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor that actually works, without – well, um, potentially killing me."

"Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor," Leo repeated, muttering it under his breath as if committing the words to memory. "You want to go ahead and tell me what that means, or am I going to have to look it up on Wikipedia?"

"It's…" He fidgeted, looking down at his hands. "It's like… well, I'm sure you've heard of Prozac? That's the most widely known SSRI, but there's also, um – Zoloft, Paxil… you've heard of these?"

Leonardo nodded slowly, a little wide-eyed now but unaware that his mask was slipping.

"Well, as it turns out, _none_ of these are safe for mutant turtles. So I tried to develop my own, but the results all had similar horrible side effects: violent seizures, irreparable brain damage, massive organ failure. Particularly the liver kept shutting down on the poor little guys. And I'm not giving you the worst results with those three, just the most common. So after four and a half months of vigorous testing, I was still at a whopping ZERO percent success rate… Well, by that point, I was pretty sick and tired of burying turtles. So I gave up."

Leonardo tried again to draw the mask up over his face, but couldn't quite smooth all the wrinkles of sympathy and worry from his brow. Softly, sounding younger than he intended, he repeated, "You… buried them?" The thought struck him as sweet and somehow reassuring – a glimpse of the gentle, sensitive little brother he'd grown up with.

"Every one," Donatello smiled sadly.

"Wow," Leonardo nodded vaguely, trying to collect himself. "Okay." His gaze flashed up to catch Don's, insisting, "I'm going to try not to pry any more than that out of you, okay? Which… is going to be really hard for me, but I'll just wait for you to – to be ready. Okay? Just – uh, Don? _Please_ tell me Splinter knows about this."

"Of course," Don assured him shyly. "Of course Splinter knows. Even about the experiments and burying all those turtles. He's the only one – besides you now, I guess, but – yeah, Leo. He knows everything that I've been able to tell him."

"Okay." The careful wording of that last statement didn't escape him, but somehow Leo managed to keep his word and not to press the issue. "I've got to say, though, I find it somewhat shocking that Splinter actually approved of your attempts to brew homemade anti-depressants for yourself."

"Oh. He didn't," Don admitted easily. "Actually, he kept pushing me to explore other options. But he said he wouldn't try and stop me if I truly felt that the medication was necessary. And I really did try almost everything he suggested, Leo. I'm not like Raphael or Mike. When he gives me advice, I listen to it. I can never just blow him off."

"Good. Well, that's reassuring, at least. And… okay, I know you're better than any of us at handling your own problems, probably even better than me, so. Yeah. I'll just…" He grinned weakly, mumbling, "You see, Donnie, this is me trying very hard not to freak out. How am I doing so far?"

Donatello allowed the ghost of a smile. "Remarkably well, actually."

"And so that brings us back to Mikey. You said you've decided to involve him in your recovery, somehow?"

"Ack," Don recoiled, "don't use that word. Please don't make this more dramatic than it needs to be. Can't we just say… that I haven't been feeling the greatest lately?"

"We can if it makes you feel better," Leo frowned. "But even from what little you've told me, I'd say that's a gross understatement."

"Okay, look. You want the honest lowdown? This is what I've gathered so far." He sat back in his chair in a posture reminiscent of The Thinker, with one arm crossed over his plastron and the other bent at the elbow, his fingers pinching at the wrinkle of flesh between his eyes. "I have been withdrawing from everyone I care about, without really meaning to. And I've been spending too much time here in my room or tucked away in the alcove outside, and generally made myself unavailable. I've made distracting myself into an art form. I haven't been eating enough, or sleeping enough, and when I step back to look at the whole of my behavior, objectively… it just doesn't sound all that GOOD for me, you know? In fact, it sounds like something really needs to change. So I've tried a lot of things, and I've disproved a lot of theories as to what that change should be. And for all the attempts that have been inconclusive, or failed outright, I haven't given up.

"So… here's the latest hypothesis, Leo: I need my best friend back. That's really all there is to it. I need Mikey back. I need him to ground me here on earth. I need him to exhaust me, and challenge me, and inspire me, and feed me Cheetos and pork rinds, and drag me places I'd never go on my own, and – you know, the whole depression thing aside? There are times I just miss him so much."

Leo stared at Don for a long time, completely speechless. Then he picked up the printout and read the contract over again from start to finish. It made so much more sense now.

"All right. I've changed my mind," he declared at last, still peering down at the page. "I think that you might be on the right track after all with this contract thing. But all of that stuff you just said to me, Donnie? I think you need to take everything you've been saying-" He held up the contract, using his other hand to tap the center of the page deliberately, "-and find a way to express it in _here_. Because what you're offering him is great, but the way that you've written it here is cold. It's careful, almost formal, don't you see that? And that doesn't reflect what you're really asking of him. What you're asking for is warm, and fun, and risky. It's all the things he loves, and probably just what he needs to hear."

Don stared at Leo. He gave a slow blink, then another, before finally breaking into a smile. "You're right, of course. That's exactly what's wrong with it! Why couldn't I see that?" He shook his head, looking at the other turtle with unabashed admiration and gratitude for a moment, before humbly dropping his eyes. "There is more than one genius in this family," he observed softly. "I hope you realize that."

"Gross exaggeration," Leonardo said with a smile. "but… thanks, Don." He looked down again at the contract, suddenly all business. "Well, shall we get started?"

* * *

o O o

* * *


	9. The Intimidation Factor

o O o

**------------ I N F L U E N C E ------------**

o O o

_**--- C h a p t e r -- N i n e ---**_

_He has faith in me. _The words were still thundering around in Raph's skull. Looking at Mike with new determination, he rallied himself into action. _So what __are you __standing around here for? _

Hauling himself to his feet, he scanned a window sill that he would have to reach to make it up onto the next roof. From there, he could drop down to the fire escape and descend to street level in the alley on the building's opposite side.

Raphael held himself poised and ready to spring, but froze at the sound of a voice.

"Come on, Gelly… pick up!"

Mikey was making another call.

Raph swore under his breath and hurried back to his previous perch, although he was torn. He'd been compiling a mental list of names so far, people his brother had mentioned – which ones he'd tried to reach. Flip, Gelica a.k.a. Gelly, Chez, Pyro, Ton-Ton, Zen, Trojan… He kept going over them in his head, committing them to memory. He had them sorted by most to least dangerous, based on who Mike had tried to reach first, how familiar he seemed to be with them, and how many of their best guarded secrets these strangely named humans seemed to know. Flip --even if Mike hadn't been able to get a hold of him-- was the one name Raph had known already. This "Flip" character was Mike's dealer. _Which makes him enemy number one,_ he thought dourly. And from what he'd gathered hearing one side of Mike's phone calls, Gelly seemed to be closely linked with the dealer. They lived together and were potentially an item.

_And this Gelly person is who he's calling now! This one could be telling._

But despite the need for patience, Raph was sick of waiting. Leo's call had filled him with new courage, and now he was feeling restless as hell and ready to _do this. _But he couldn't just charge in. He had to do this right. He had to be smart about it.

He'd opted not to bring his bike earlier, afraid that he would lose sight of Mikey. Now he needed it, especially if "Gelly" agreed to come and get his brother with some sort of vehicle. If that happened, he'd have no hope of keeping up with them.

_After this, it's time to move, _Raphael decided resolutely. _After this one last call…_

o O o

The phone was ringing. Again. Gelica scowled at it.

They kept interrupting _Full House_.

It was a dirty, well-kept secret that she even liked the show. She didn't _want_ to like it, but she did. She loved the cheesy plots. She loved the swelling 'family talk' music when it was time to learn today's moral lesson. She loved the slice of life glimpses into the peaceful, milk-white, upper-middle class suburbia that she herself had never known.

Gelica narrowed her eyes at the insolent telephone, very tempted for a moment to ignore it. But even though they weren't supposed to call the home phone, Flip would probably be pissed if she snubbed his customers. There were definitely downsides to being a dealer's girl.

Sighing, she stretched for the phone and caught it on the fourth ring. "Flip's not here, I don't know when he's comin' back, and I don't pass messages for nobody. So whaddya WANT?" Might as well make it clear right off the bat.

"Gosh, Gelly. You'd make the worst administrative assistant EVER…"

There was only one person in the world who called her Gelly. She brightened immediately. For his sake, she could definitely miss Steph and Danny's heart-to-heart.

o O o

Michelangelo was in the middle of writing a Very Angry Letter to Donatello. In gamer slang, it was dripping with _serious __aggro_. Not that he could actually share his clever term with anyone, since Donnie was the only one who would have _gotten_ it. And he couldn't speak to Donatello right now.

A motorcycle just ahead of him revved like a beast, but Mike didn't look up. _Just some dick showing off_, he thought. He didn't care to be distracted. It had felt good to be so absorbed in his work, caught up in a muse fueled by his brief, indignant fury. Normally he wouldn't use his tagbook for something like this, but it was the only paper available.

Now he was chewing on the cap of one of his nicer art pens without realizing it. It still wasn't quite right, but he was starting to grow concerned that his endless revisions were causing his words to lose the heat necessary for a properly harsh flaming like the one Donnie-boy deserved.

Suddenly, white light flooded the alleyway, blinding him.

He lifted his hand instinctively to shield his eyes, before realizing that he was exposing a very green hand to that penetrating glare. Quickly stuffing it back into his hoodie's front pocket and out of sight, Mike squinted into the intrusive light and griped, "Hey! Can ya watch the high beams, jerk-off? It's the middle of the freakin' day!"

The blinding light blinked out abruptly. For a moment, he only saw spots, and he had to fight against the urge to scrub at his eyes. When his vision finally cleared, he jolted with recognition.

The motorcycle growled and shot forward.

Mike girl-screamed and dropped his tagbook, rolling instinctively to the side, but the figure didn't keep gunning for him. The bike leapt up onto the sidewalk and then the rider cut the handles sharply, veering it sideways and to a quick stop. One huge, chrome-lined boot stomped down the kickstand.

After climbing off, the figure began a slow and tromping approach. His voice was hollowed and muffled by his helmet, but otherwise it was so very familiar. "Now, I _know_ you didn' just call me a jerk-off."

The Nightwatcher. The NIGHTWATCHER was looming over him! Pulling out of his cringe, Michelangelo straightened. His eyes became pale blue saucers.

"Holy crap, Raph. Nearly pissed myself." The younger terrapin broke into a huge fanboy grin. "Gah, I still might! You look SO wicked!"

The Nightwatcher seemed to stare hard at him. After a moment, he heaved a sigh and came to sit on the curb next to Mike, pulling up the glossy black visor on his helmet so he could look Mike in the eye directly. "Yeah, well. _You_ look like a damn criminal."

Michelangelo was not even phased by this. It wasn't like he hadn't heard it from Raph before. He continued to ogle the body armor with undisguised amazement. "Oh, man. I've never seen it up close before. Which is kind of funny, cuz I've _drawn_ it so many times, right? But the only reference I ever had to use was what they could get in the newspaper photos. And they were usually blurry, or there'd be, like, tons of obstruction…"

Now Raph was eying his brother dubiously and leaning away slightly from his over-eager scrutiny. "Well, I wasn' zactly stickin' around to sign autographs."

"Oh, right. 'Course, I get that." Mike met his gaze and beamed. "I'm just sayin! Like, I'm seein' there's all kinds of parts I got wrong. You should totally pose for me."

"Hmph. So much for the intimidation factor," Raph muttered under his breath. Giving his head a slow shake, he looked back at Mike and demanded, "You're not serious, are ya?"

"YES! Pose for me! Dude, you HAVE to!"

"No!" Raph snapped, incensed by this request.

"Not for like the whole drawing! Just lemme snap some pictures! Like a front view and a profile, at least! Just enough so I can get some basic character models down. Come on, Raph!"

Raphael stared at him like he was speaking another language. "No," he tried again, but this time it sounded more like growing horror.

Turning it up a notch, Mike widened his eyes further and clasped his hands together in front of him. "Dude, please? I'll love you forever. Pleaseplease? Triple please?"

Raphael stared him down stubbornly.

"I'll just keep counting pleases at you 'til you do. Quadruple please! Um. Q_uintruple_ please!"

"Pentuple," Raph supplied, rather desperate now to change the subject.

"Huh?"

"It's _pentuple,"_ Raph stressed, embarrassment making his voice rougher. Upon seeing Mike's baffled expression, he set his jaw and looked away. "_What?_ Don stopped makin' me smoke pellets, okay? Said I shouldn't _need _'em anymore. So… I asked to borrow some of his chemistry shit to read. Told him I'd just figure it out my own damn self. And he gave me this cocky stare and says, 'bullshit'. Then he laughed and handed em over, sayin' he'd like to see me try. And so. It's like… the molecules. When there's five of them bonded, it's pentuple."

"Ew," Mike sympathized. "So you actually read it?"

"Wasn't so hard." Raphael's chin came up with pride. "Just no point to knowin' it, before."

"Oh, I know. Dude, I'm so not pulling a Don on you here," Mike rushed to assure him, putting up both hands. "Just, like, I know I'd have been bored to tears by it."

Raph canted him a brief look. "Yeah, I was sometimes. Truth is, I never been real good at learnin' what I wanna know by readin' it out of a book. If you tell Don, I'll have to kill you, but… I had Leatherhead walk me through a couple of the parts that were confusing." His gaze tore away and drifted off across the street somewhere. Folding his arms over his knees, he mumbled, "And he made me memorize some charts and basic principles n'shit before he'd work with me, and yeah, that part sucked. Was all worth it, though. Can't tell you how many times those damn things've saved my life."

A flashbulb went off from Mike's shell cell, causing Raph to look up from his reverie with a snarl.

"Dammit, Mike! I said no pictures!"

He had a newer model phone than Raph's (on account of Raph breaking his so often) and it included a built-in digital camera. Mike felt he put more creative use to this new feature than anyone else in the family by a long shot. "That's the profile!" he piped happily, eying the image in the view screen with pride. "Now if I can just get a front view, preferably with you standing— hey! Don't touch that!"

Raphael had reached back and grabbed his tagbook up off the concrete where it had fallen and landed face down. "Why the hell not? If I'm gonna wind up some cartoon in one of your funnybooks, the least ya can do is lemme see –" His rant trailed off.

The street got real quiet suddenly. Mike squirmed where he sat, waiting as Raph read the unfinished letter to Donnie.

After what seemed an eternity later, he lowered the book and looked at Michelangelo very seriously. "Don't give 'im this," he suggested, his voice very quiet.

"He majorly fucked me over**," **Michelangelo pointed out in a growl.

"Yeah, I guess he did. Sorta. But I mean, the gig's up, Mike. Leo _knows. _Anyway, bein' at war with Donnie – ain't all it's cracked up to be. He remembers the shitty things you said to him for a long time."

"Then maybe I'll just kick his ass instead," Mike scowled. "Why'd he have to change so much, Raph? I know you've seen it, too. Lately he – hey! I didn't say you could look at those!"

"Why not? Did you make me look dumb?"

"You aren't even in there! Give it back, kay?" He made an attempt to swipe the tagbook back, but Raph deflected it easily and turned back another page. "Dude, I'm telling you! Those sketches are in a whole different book!"

"Back off, wouldja? I don't invoke my rights ta be a nosy big brother very often. In fact, I'd say as big brothers go, I give you a _lotta_ goddamn room. So gimme a break here." He flipped the book toward Mike and stabbed a finger to indicate one of the more recent tags. "What's this one say?"

"A.V.A.," Mike admitted, speaking under his breath now and unable to hide all of his nervousness.

Raph nodded and went back to flipping through the book. "A lotta these say that, huh?" he mumbled, "This one's good."

"That's just the draft," the younger terrapin admitted. "All of these. I mean. I put the real one up at the 7-yard… Willet's Point Station, on the 7-line."

Raphael knew New York City pretty well, and still it took him a moment. He knew the train tracks by their underside rather than by its topside stations. "In Queens?" he blinked.

"Yeah." Michelangelo didn't understand the look of surprise that Raphael was leveling at him now from under the shadow of his visor. He decided to take offense. "What? Is that too far from home for such an inexperienced kid like me to be playing, Raph?" he protested. "Yeah, you're one to talk!"

"No!" Raph snarled back. "That ain't it at all!"

Then – miraculously – Mike watched his hotheaded brother fight to compose himself. The helmet shook slowly, and his gaze went out ahead of him as if in concentration. He repeated quietly, "Just… ain't like that."

"What's it like, then?"

"You go there alone?" Raphael wondered quietly, not looking at him. "To Queens?"

Michelangelo stared at him. For a moment he was very tempted to lie to his brother's face, but then he remembered that he was raised better than that. It seemed like a much better idea to say nothing at all.

Raphael waited, then bobbed his head once it was clear Mike wasn't going to respond. "Guess I don't 'spect you to answer questions I already know the answer to," he rumbled. "Hate it when Splinter does that shit to me…"

Mike swallowed hard and told himself to stop staring, but he couldn't. His stomach wanted to crawl off and die in the gutter somewhere.

"Guess the question I really wanna ask, is—" he paused and looked over to meet Mike's gaze tensely, "you some kinda gangster these days, Mikey?"

"No!" Michelangelo denied vehemently, sitting up straighter and looking at Raph earnestly. "Gah, don't even say that! We get such a bogus rep from the media already. Please, don't be one of Those Dudes!" He paused to notice Raphael's blank, uncomprehending stare. Mike huffed and folded his arms, making sure his green hands were tucked firmly into his armpits and out of sight from passersby. "Taggers aren't the same as gangsters, bro. Like, at all. Eesh, and you're supposed to be the 'streetwise' one in the family…"

"Uh-huh," Raph responded, lowering his chin a little but still managing to use that slow, quiet voice, "so what yer sayin' is… yer a tagger. Like, a punk-ass criminal _wannabe_ who runs around with a backpack and a mask, fuckin' shit up with spray paint."

"Okay," Michelangelo grumbled. "So maybe you still get to be the streetwise one. But we aren't _criminals_, Raph. And we sure don't _wanna_ be criminals, either. That's mental."

"Destruction of public property?" Raphael suggested. "Pretty sure NYPD's still callin' that a crime."

"Oh, well sure. If we're counting the BULLSHIT laws!" Mike stabbed a finger at Raph and observed, "Last I checked, you were kinda familiar with breakin' that one yourself, bro."

"Yeah," Raph actually grinned, just for a moment, "gotta point there." He paused, his brow ridges furrowing as he went on sternly, "How 'bout drug trafficking? That a serious law to you?"

Mike's mirth evaporated quickly. "Depends."

Raphael strongly disagreed on this point. Mike could tell by the face he made and the heavy way that he shook his head. But he let it go, moving on to ask, "What about guns, then? You tellin' me none of these friends of yours are packin' heat?"

"Some of them do," the smaller terrapin admitted, his eyes closing up further. He looked away. "We carry concealed weapons, too, Raph."

"The difference is, we're _trained_ to do it."

"And what makes you think they aren't?" Mike shot back hotly. "You don't even know them!"

"Hunh," Raph grunted doubtfully, "F'ya say so, Mike." He popped his knuckles, looking out across the street. "Y'know, there's also gotta be a crime against runnin' around in a damn paint mask. Tell me you skip that part of the costume."

Mike knew an out when he saw one, and he latched onto it gratefully. "Sorry, bro..." He dug into the bag and produced his mask, holding it out sheepishly.

"This is one of Don's," Raph noted, recognizing the paper mask. He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully. "Does he know ya swiped it from his medical supplies?"

"Probably not," Mike admitted, shrugging and looking down to avoid Raph's gaze. "But I mean, he's got plenty of spare ones! Regular painter masks just don't fit me right." His lips quirked wryly. "I'd offer to give it back, but somehow I doubt he's gonna want it now."

"Yeah, looks kinda… colorful for his taste," Raph agreed, rubbing one thick thumb over the specks of paint covering the front of it. He passed it back to Mike, who stuffed the mask back into his bag and out of sight.

"So you're not gonna tell Leo, right?" Mike asked with a flinch, not lifting his eyes from the concrete.

"Are you?" Raph returned pointedly.

"I dunno," Mike sighed. "I guess it's stupid to drag it out, huh? Might as well get in trouble all at once… The only thing I'm worried about is the ranting, really. You know how Leo can get. You've gotta come check on us if it starts getting ridiculous, okay? 'Specially if he's making me miss dinner…"

"I can see all the ones that say A.V.A., now that I kinda know what to look for. But I'm still lost on some of these."

"Huh?" Mike's head snapped over to see that Raphael was no longer paying attention to his urgent pleas. He was looking through the tagbook again.

"Like, what's that one supposed to be?"

"Hype," Mike supplied at a glance, his blue eyes guarded.

"Eh?" Raph cocked his head a little, then turned the tagbook at various angles trying to see the word Hype. "Just not seein' it. You tellin' me that isn't an N right there?"

"That's what I'm tellin' you, dude," Mike couldn't help a faint smile, watching him puzzle over it. "That's part of two of the letters, right there."

"So where's the P?"

"Uh, between the Y and the E?" Mike returned, now grinning like a smart-ass. Ducking forward, he righted the tagbook and traced his first finger over the letters, one by one. "Look. H… Y… P… E. See? Hype."

"Oh yeah," Raphael mused. "Yeah, I'm seein' it now." He turned the page. "More A.V.A. ones. What's it stand for, anyway?"

"Artists Versus Authority," Mike confessed.

"That's your crew, huh? Guess it's kinda clever," Raph allowed, turning through the pages again.

"Heh, I thought so too. They – oh." Mike stiffened where he sat, his whole chest going tight with embarrassment when he saw which piece Raph had turned to. _Annnnd now he's stopping on it. Crap!_

"What's this one say? It's kinda crazy."

"Um, no," Mike hedged miserably. "Actually, that one's kinda stupid." He could see why Raph might have trouble with this one. The lines behind it were heavy and jagged, drawn to look like electricity. One had to concentrate on the image to tell where the background stopped and the chaotic lettering began. "And by stupid, I mean completely retarded and n00bish. Seriously, give it here. Lemme' find you a better one!"

He reached for the book, but Raph held it away from him. "Ain't stupid, okay? S'kinda dark and… sick, really. Think it's my favorite so far. Okay, I know that's an 'A' right there. But what's the rest say…?"

"Raph, please?" Oh, man. Mike suddenly hated his voice, which betrayed him by going all scratchy and high like a little kid's. "Just turn the page, okay? I really hate that one."

But it was too late. Raphael seemed to have noticed the message fitted into the upper left-hand corner of the piece, squinting at the small, bold lettering.

**I DON'T NEED THEIR **

**COMPANY ANY **

**MORE THAN **

**I NEED **

He watched Raph's eyes widen and look back at the tag. He could read it clearly now, it was painfully obvious. Put in the proper context, it must have jumped off the page at him. His lips even shaped the word: _AIR._

He could feel Raph looking at him now. For a while it was really awkward, because he couldn't bring himself to look back.

Raph had never been good at saying he was sorry about anything. He hoped it was an unspoken understanding between them by now, that Mike would never make him say it. Mike would normally much rather exact payback via any number of pranks or cheap shots while they were sparring (made to look accidental, of course) and call it even after a day or two of abuse.

But when it was something this big, it couldn't always be solved that way. Sometimes Raph would do this instead. Just look at him. They would share a silent moment and be done with it.

But lately Mike had been – sensitive, somehow, to just these sort of moments. Sensitive in ways that were starting to feel very X-Files. Sensitive in ways that kind of scared him.

Normally he had to be looking them in the eyes to feel differently, and that was partly why he couldn't bring himself to do it. He _knew_ how strongly Raph felt things, and so it didn't even surprise him very much when it started to happen anyway. Even with his head curled down toward the concrete he could feel his own feelings start to crumble away at the edges, giving way to the heat of fierce guilt and fury turned inward. The haunting chill of his fear. The massive, steadfast pressure to do the right thing, to take active measures and help make things right, somehow. The vast well of his devotion.

_He does care. He cares so much. About me. About all this._

When Michelangelo looked up at last to meet his brother's gaze, tears had stung his eyes bright. He cowered there, unable to look away, unable for a moment to sort his own emotions out from Raph's. For a moment, he was nearly overcome by the absurd urge to explain himself, to reassure his brother somehow, and to apologize for ever having wondered how Raph felt about them. Somehow he managed to keep his wits together enough to hold his tongue.

Thank god he was _Raph_. He didn't need to drag it out. Didn't feel the need to say anything that would make the situation even _more_ mortifying for both of them. He just swallowed and gave a nod, looking back down at the book and turning the page. "So what's that one? Gotta K up front, right?"

Quick as that, the strange sensation was gone. Mike blinked down at the tagbook. His feelings were his own again. He blinked some more and finally broke into a smile. "Dude, that does not look even _slightly_ like a K."

"Yeah, it does! Check it. Here's the back of the K, and then this sweepin' part comin' in here – oh. Hold up. Crud. That part's a whole different letter, huh?"

"'Fraid so."

"Then… oh. It says 'I.O.U.', am I right?" Raph gave a smirk at his brother's expression. Mike's look of surprise was clearly an affirmative. "There, see?" he said, gesturing at the tagbook with one chrome-gloved hand. "Finally getting the hang of it!"

"Pssh," Mike scoffed. "Lucky guess!" He snatched the book back, leafing through it quickly and mumbling, "Let's just see you figure out this one..."

"Mike! Who – ohmigod!"

Both heads shot up at this, honing in on the newcomer who was staring at them, hands plastered over her mouth. She was probably getting purple lipstick on her fingerless gloves, but was too surprised to care.

"Hey, Gelly," Mike greeted her casually, getting up and expecting a hug from her. She attacked him instead.

"Ohmigod. Ohmigod, Mike! You asshole! Your BROTHER is the NIGHTWATCHER?" The flat of her hand pummeled him harmlessly. "And just how long have you _known_, you -- you stupid jerk?"

"Hey – HEY! Not long, actually." Mike had his elbows up in vague defense. "Sorry, okay? I shoulda told you."

Raphael was still staring at her. "Why, so I could kick your ass for bein' such a loud mouth? All those comic books you read, and ya can't learn to keep a lid on a damn secret identity?"

"I DID keep a lid on it, didn't I?" Geez. He never got any credit.

"Ohmigod, this is so crazy!" She stopped assaulting Mike and took a step back, bouncing in place with barely checked excitement. "And we can't even post it on the forums, can we? They would FREAK THE FUCK OUT! Can you imagine?"

"Forums…?" Raph repeated, looking positively ill.

"Yeah, heh, let's-not-do-that," Mike agreed hurriedly, shooting his brother an uneasy glance. "Anyway, Raph - what's it matter if SHE knows? It's not like you two don't already know each other."

Gelica looked almost bashful now. She scuffed one toe into the concrete. Mike fought back a surge of unreasonable jealousy at her suddenly coquettish body language. "Hi, Raphael. It's been a while, huh? I musta been – what, thirteen?"

Raph stared, looking between Mike and the girl with dismay. "Uh… yeah. Guess it has been a few years now. Uh… S'up, Angel?"

Mike opened his mouth to explain that she hadn't gone by that name in ages, and how she had to be careful because social services was still looking for her, and all of that stuff. "Actually…"

He only got out the one word before forgetting the rest of what he'd planned to say. Gelica had dashed forward and thrown her arms around Raph's neck in an exuberant hug. "You have no idea, I've got like this whole wall plastered with newspaper clippings and some of Mike's drawings and, like, pictures I printed off the internet… Flip's even been bitching that one of these days I'm gonna run off with the Nightwatcher, ha-ha!"

Beneath the black motorcycle visor, Raphael's eyes had gone huge with surprise. He looked to Mike as if begging his assistance in removing this clinging, fishnet-wearing, patchouli-scented thing that had attached itself to his neck.

Mike smirked, put at ease somewhat as he took in Raph's obvious discomfort. He gave his big brother a helpless shrug.

"Oh, Raph…" she continued to gush, pulling away enough to give him a sparkling, radiant smile. "Of _course_ it was you all along. I should've known!_"_

o O o


End file.
